


Caring is Not an Advantage

by JDWraith



Series: Charringford Holmes [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BAMF Charles, BAMF John Watson, Dubious Consent, Kidnapping, M is Mummy Holmes, M/M, No Porn, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Canon Compliant, Omega Charles, Omega Verse, Pre-Relationship, Tony Stark Is a Good Bro, not as dark as it sounds, obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-19 20:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9460085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDWraith/pseuds/JDWraith
Summary: “So, he’s someone Moriarty’s targeted because he’s personally important to one or both of you,” John concluded grimly.Both brothers started staring at him again.“It’s pretty obvious,” he stated gently.  Sherlock scowled and swept back to the kitchen.  Mycroft watched Sherlock in silence for a few moments then said softly,“He’s our brother.”





	1. Missing

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first go at publishing here.  
> I hope you enjoy it. Constructive comments are appreciated.  
> From a timeline perspective this is set after the battle against the Chitauri in the first Avengers movie but before the rest and not long before Sherlock's fall at the end of Season 2. As regards X-men, it doesn't fit in any timeline whatsoever.

“Charringford!”

  
Sherlock practically flew through the doorway his long coat flaring out behind him.

“Charringford!”

To John’s surprise, Mycroft joined in the call. Both alphas spun around, frantically searching the luxurious apartment. As John stepped over the threshold a sick feeling curled in his stomach. In the centre of the room, surrounded by floodlights and video cameras, was a huge, circular bed. It was empty. Even its base sheet had been stripped off. Traces of the unmistakable scent of an omega in heat lingered making his senses tingle.  
Mycroft darted into a nearby open doorway. Sherlock circled the bed, stopping near a chair and then stooping to study the base of one of the lights. A few moments later Mycroft strode back out of the side room scrubbing one hand across his face. He moved to examine a small bundle resting on a nearby chair. John realised they were clothes.

“Everything except his underwear,” Sherlock advised, his face impassive. John turned to see that Mycroft’s expression was also closed off. The detective dropped down on all fours to examine the rug beside the bed.  
“There are a lot of marks from your tactical response team but look here ....” Mycroft bent down.  
“Two people struggling – both barefoot,” he noted softly. Sherlock nodded. He crawled forward to an area near the top of the bed and lifted the dark blue valance. John moved closer. He did not need his friend’s magnifier to find what they were staring at – a plate-sized, red stain, vivid against the bright white of the rug.

 

They had been running around London for the better part of two days working on the inexplicable theft of a diamond necklace from a locked room whose sole occupant was a scarlet macaw when Sherlock’s mobile started pinging out a tinny version of God Save the Queen.

“Not now,” he’d huffed, firmly pressing decline. A moment later the song began to play again. Sherlock frowned.  
“Maybe you should just ....” John ventured. His friend groaned but snatched the phone up to his ear anyway.  
“Go away Mycroft! This is at least an eight ....” Then Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut and he went rigid.  
“When?” The tall alpha took a long, slow breath.  
“Have you been able to ...?” Sherlock listened again then signed off without another word. He leaned forward and rapped sharply on the cab’s Perspex barrier.  
“Brookhaven apartments, Wyngarde Avenue. A hundred pounds if you get us there in less than fifteen minutes.”

 

They’d made it in nine. Half a dozen sleek black cars were already parked in front of the building and Sherlock was practically vibrating with tension. A man dressed in an impeccable navy suit and sporting a military haircut quickly waved them into the building’s foyer just as an ambulance pulled up.

Mycroft was standing in front of the elevator doors when they opened on the eleventh floor. Shouts and banging were coming from the other end of the hallway and a squad of navy suited agents lined the corridor, most with scent blocking masks on and all with weapons out. The atmosphere was thick with tension and pheromones. Mycroft dangled a scent mask in his left hand. He glanced at his beta assistant Anthea. She solemnly handed a mask to Sherlock. He shoved it into his coat pocket. As a beta, John didn’t need one. She handed him a tablet computer instead.

“This CCTV footage was taken just over three hours ago,” she said briskly swiping the screen to bring up a video recording.  
“But only brought to my attention forty-seven minutes ago,” Mycroft interjected, his tone arctic. “The agent responsible is being held pending a full interrogation.”

John positioned the screen so that Sherlock could also see. The video was shot from a fixed point and showed a street view that John did not recognise. A slender, young man with dark hair was walking along the footpath. An elderly woman passing him in the other direction suddenly dropped one of her shopping bags. What appeared to be oranges scattered across the pavement. The young man instantly went to help. Another man walked over to join them, but instead of helping stepped behind the dark haired youth, put an arm around his shoulders and quickly pressed something against his neck. He then covered the boy’s mouth. There was a brief struggle but the boy’s attacker was taller and more powerfully built. After a few moments the young man’s legs gave out and he slumped into his assailant’s arms as a dark van pulled over next to the group. A second man jumped out of the side door and grabbed the boy’s feet. They carried him into the back of the van as the elderly woman, who had suddenly become surprisingly agile, clambered into the front passenger seat. They took off. Scattered oranges covered the footpath and one rolled into the gutter as they watched.

The entire encounter took less than thirty seconds.

“We have traced the van’s movements back to this building. The building superintendent has confirmed that the penthouse apartment on this floor was leased to a John Lovecraft two months ago,” Mycroft advised quietly. Anthea made a couple of quick swipes over the tablet.  
“This image was taken half an hour after the kidnapping by the surveillance camera downstairs.” The smirking face of James Moriarty filled the screen.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

“The boy, who is he?” John asked. “Why would Moriarty kidnap him?” Neither brother answered. Anthea put her hand up to one ear,  
“Extraction team reports all clear, sir. Air scrubbers and breathing masks not required.” She gave her boss an unreadable look. “The apartment appears to be empty. No visible heat signatures.” Half a dozen men and women carrying automatic weapons and wearing black body armour were emerging from of the apartment doorway.

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged a tense look.

“Wait! We still need to check for ...” John did not hear the rest of Anthea’s cry because Sherlock was already off, sprinting towards the apartment. Without hesitation, John followed.

 

Both brothers continued to stare transfixed at the patch of blood next to the stripped circular bed. John realised with surprise that the three of them were still alone in the apartment. He glanced at the doorway and saw that it was being guarded by Anthea, who was somehow both closely monitoring her boss and averting her eyes. John turned back to the Holmeses. He waited for them to spring into action. Well, for Sherlock to spring into action and for Mycroft to start pulling strings so other people would spring into action.

But nothing happened.

They looked numb. John breathed out softly. As a doctor and as a soldier he’d seen that look many times. But he’d never expected to see it on the face of either Holmes. They were trying to make sense of something that their minds refused to comprehend. An event so devastating that they needed time to process it. Unfortunately, they didn’t have that time right now. Not with a life at stake. John squared his shoulders and stood parade ground straight.

“Not much blood,” he commented in a firm, matter of fact voice. They turned away from the bloodstain to look at him.  
“If he were seriously injured,” John continued, “you’d expect there to be a lot more.” He was not saying anything they didn’t already know but they both stared at him with unblinking fascination. He glanced around the apartment, “How do you think they left without being seen by the surveillance camera downstairs? Is it possible they’re still somewhere in this building?”

For a few moments both alphas continued to gape at him. Then Sherlock stood up in one graceful, fluid movement. Mycroft smoothed down his buttoned vest and summoned Anthea from the doorway with a glance. He started murmuring a rapid series of orders as the beautiful beta’s fingers flew across her blackberry. When John turned back to Sherlock he was met with an expression of quiet pride. He didn’t have long to bask in that approval, however, because a heartbeat later Sherlock leapt across to the apartment’s small kitchen and began pulling open every drawer and cupboard.

Agents started filing in. Some were wearing headphones and carrying what John recognised as equipment used to check for hidden cameras and microphones. A beta in army fatigues entered behind a very enthusiastic springer spaniel wearing a camouflage patterned coat with the name “Alex” stitched on the side. EOD, John thought quietly. Bomb Disposal. Probably what Andrea had been asking her boss to wait for. Well that ship had sailed. An agent handed John a pair of rubber gloves which he promptly put on.  
He looked over at Sherlock who was conducting a minute examination of the kitchen bench top. Stiff shoulders and an intense frown broadcast loud and clear the detective’s desire to be left alone. John resigned himself to waiting, watching and doing his best to keep out of the way. After a few minutes both bomb disposal and the surveillance teams reported a clean sweep.

“The tracker is still working?” Sherlock called out tersely. Mycroft turned away from Anthea to respond,  
“It is transmitting from this room. We cannot localise it more precisely than that.”  
“Tracker?” John queried. “He was wearing some sort of tracking device?”  
“Yes,” Mycroft confirmed. John glanced at the small pile of clothes.  
“It wasn’t in his clothing,” Mycroft advised dismissing Anthea as Sherlock stalked over to join them. The elder Holmes lowered his voice to a confidential murmur. “It is surgically implanted under his left armpit.” John considered the possible implications of this information paired with the pool of blood.  
“Is he some sort of operative then?” he whispered. Sherlock made an unhappy snorting noise. Mycroft just sighed.  
“So, he’s someone Moriarty’s targeted because he’s personally important to one or both of you,” John concluded grimly. Both brothers started staring at him again.  
“It’s pretty obvious,” he stated gently. Sherlock scowled and swept back to the kitchen. Mycroft watched Sherlock in silence for a few moments then said softly,

“He’s our brother.”


	2. Home Video

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The extent of Moriarty's villany is revealed.

Something shorted out in John’s brain.  It took a few moments before he remembered that he needed to breathe.

He glanced at Sherlock but was met by his resolutely turned back. Mycroft rubbed a slightly trembling hand over his face. John had never seen the normally composed alpha so openly troubled.

  
“I was seventeen when Charringford was born,” the elder Holmes advised in a low murmur. “Sherlock was ten. As I understand it, our mother had not had a heat in some time and given that she was in her late forties, she and Daddy assumed that she had entered the null. The pregnancy was something of a shock. Both were at the peak of very successful careers so Charringford was placed almost immediately after birth in the care of a nanny. Daddy was a research scientist. Mummy worked for the government.”

  
“Like you work for the government?” John asked.

“Very much like me,” Mycroft agreed gravely. “Public service is something of a family tradition.” And John could easily imagine that - generation after generation of Holmeses quietly running Britain from behind the scenes. They’d probably spied on Napoleon and gathered intelligence during the construction of the Spanish Armada.  
“When Charringford was ten we confirmed that he was destined to manifest as an omega.” John nodded. Generally, only omegas gave birth to omegas. It was therefore common for families with omegas in their direct bloodline to have ultrasound testing carried out on their children well before they reached puberty. Early detection enabled parents to make the special preparations necessary for an omega child’s schooling and safety. It also facilitated bonding arrangements. In Britain and most of Europe, it was still common for omegas to become betrothed if not bonded before finishing high school.

Mycroft stared at the handle of his umbrella.

“Not long afterwards, a powerful adversary of Mummy’s targeted Charringford. Like Moriarty, this man wanted to use our brother to enact a particularly nasty and personal revenge. Charringford was kidnapped. He was just minutes from being whisked out of the country when he was recovered. The alpha concerned comes from a large and very powerful family. He was, at that time, untouchable. It was decided that the best and safest course would be to pretend to place Charringford in seclusion and for him to assume a new identity far away. He went to stay with a childhood friend of my father in the United States. It was meant to be a temporary arrangement. Just until Charringford could return home safely but ….” Mycroft sighed.

John swallowed and tried not to look at the cameras and stripped bed. He hadn’t realised that Sherlock was standing right beside them until he spoke, his voice low and bitter,

“This isn’t about Mummy. Or you. This danger has come from me. Moriarty wants to burn _me_. And Charringford ... Charringford ....” Sherlock clamped down on the words. “Why is he even in London?” he snapped. “Why now?” Mycroft murmured very softly,

“I do not know.”

 

Mycroft’s agents scoured the room methodically for any useful information. The air was thick with the sour scent anxiety. John understood. These agents all had families. Families they wanted to believe were secure against the danger they had invited into their own lives. But if Mycroft Holmes’s brother could be taken then no one was safe. The fact that the victim was an omega only intensified everyone’s misery.

Because omegas were not supposed to be in danger. Not ever.

Traditional society, and Britain and most of Europe were far more traditional than the rest of the western world, recognised the different genders – alpha, beta and omega – as playing different roles in society.

Alphas led.

Physically stronger, assertive to the point of aggression, ambitious and territorial, alphas pursued their goals and protected their packs with ruthless determination. Sherlock personified this drive and focus to an extent John had never experienced before. For the detective, nothing was more important than The Work, not even his own health and wellbeing. His body had been relegated to mere transport for his remarkable mind and will.

If it was natural for alphas to lead, then the genetically assigned role of betas was to follow and support. They were the alphas’ right hand and in many respects society’s backbone. Steady, reliable and exceptionally loyal, John was considered a typical beta.

And omegas?

In fairytales, omegas were the fair prisoner kept locked away by the wicked sorcerer, or dragon, or evil king. Or the hero’s reward for saving the kingdom. Or the beautiful and undeserving victim of a cruel curse. And after they had been rescued, they enthusiastically bonded with their alpha rescuer who would then assume a position of command and authority in the kingdom and together they would live happily ever after.

And in real life?

Imbued with a societal mystique that somehow combined almost childlike innocence with a heady sexual allure, omegas were regarded as sweet-natured, gentle and nurturing. It would be easy to think that such traits would leave them weak and vulnerable in an alpha led society. In fact, the opposite was true. Alphas and betas were driven by powerful instincts to protect omegas. And not just the omegas belonging to their pack. All omegas.

Scientists and social commentators theorised that this strong protective instinct provided an essential societal balance to the aggressive dominance of alphas and was at least partially responsible for the progress of humanity as a species.

Their reasoning went thus:

 

  * Because of their caring natures, omegas are happiest when others, particularly the members of their pack, are happy and well cared for.
  * Happy and content omegas lead to happy and content alphas.
  * Happy and content alphas who care about and are protective of their pack's wellbeing leads to stable and strong leadership.
  * Strong leadership and a stable society leads to happy and content betas.



  
John wasn't so sure.  But cultures that valued the gentler qualities of omegas did seem to be both more tolerant and more progressive in the recognition of human rights. Bonded alphas were certainly considered more stable and trustworthy than their unbonded counterparts.

  
Academics aside, any crime that targeted omegas was regarded by both alphas and betas as particularly abhorrent. Unnatural.

 

Omegas were supposed to be safe.

 

John watched as Sherlock commenced an intense examination of the sliding door leading out onto the balcony. He was just about to walk over and see if there was any way he could help when one of the agents, a blonde female alpha, called out urgently,

“Sir!” Everyone stopped. She hurried over to Mycroft and passed him a small, handheld video camera.

“It was in the broom closet sir, inside the mop bucket beneath the dry mop. It has recordings with today’s date stamp.”  
“This room has been swept?” Mycroft asked frowning.  
“Yes sir,” Anthea answered. She examined the camera. “This isn’t switched on so it would not have been picked up by the electronic sweep.” Mycroft considered the camera.  
“Check again please,” he ordered quietly. She nodded and a number of agents moved to obey. After a tense minute an agent called out,

“I’m getting a signal from up here!” He was pointing to the ceiling almost directly above them. He climbed on top of the bed and started unscrewing the light fitting.  
“Here!” came from the kitchen and the bathroom almost simultaneously. Another agent lifted a nearby mirror off the wall revealing a small camera hidden in an alcove behind it.  
A middle aged, male beta brought over the device extracted from the ceiling. Sherlock had already moved to join them and both Holmes brothers peered intently at the tiny camera which was connected to some other gadget.

“Motion detector,” noted Sherlock quietly. “No doubt set to activate the cameras a set time after your people entered the apartment – long enough for an electronic sweep to be carried out and the apartment deemed clear.”  
“Moriarty doesn’t just want us to see what he did. He wants to watch us doing so,” observed Mycroft coldly.  
“Bastard!” muttered John.  
“Clever,” said Sherlock softly.  
“A clever bastard then,” growled John and was rewarded with a ghost of a smile from his friend. A few minutes later Mycroft’s assistant approached them again.  
“We’re clear now sir,” reported Anthea.  
“You’re certain there isn’t a further layer of surveillance waiting to be triggered?” queried Mycroft tersely.  
“As certain as we can be without dismantling the walls sir,” she advised respectfully. “We’ve activated a jammer to prevent any wireless transmissions from leaving the apartment. It’s strong enough to cover the surrounding four to five storeys. No one will be able to use their mobile phones or wireless technology whilst the device is in use.” Mycroft nodded.

“Draft a directive that continuous surveillance sweeps are to be standard when dealing with any threat assessed as tango level or above or where there is even the remotest possibility that James Moriarty is involved.”  Anthea nodded and moved away typing into her blackberry.  
“The recording,” Sherlock murmured so softly John barely heard the words even standing right next to him.  
Mycroft considered for a moment then raised his voice,

“Clear the room!” Anthea swiftly moved to stand at the apartment’s entrance. The other agents hurriedly filed out. John contemplated the type of recording that was likely to be on the camera. He started to follow the exiting agents when a hand gently closed around his upper arm. Sherlock was holding him in place. The brothers exchanged a meaningful glance and Mycroft nodded. Anthea swept the room with her eyes, dipped her head ever so slightly to Mycroft, stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind her.

Mycroft walked over to an enormous flat screen television attached to the wall. A thin electrical cable hung down from it, one end resting on the top shelf of the entertainment unit underneath. Mycroft plugged the cable into the back of the camera and placed the small device on top of the unit. Then he picked up two black remote controls and walked back to rejoin John and Sherlock. The television made a soft plunk as it came to life. The screen quickly lightened into an image of the circular bed. In this version, however, the bed was covered - not only with a blue sheet but also with an unconscious young man. The camera slowly zoomed in on the boy’s face. Very pale, almost luminous skin, a strong if slightly bumpy nose, elegantly curved eyebrows and sensuously red lips all framed by waves of soft looking, dark chocolate hair – Charringford Holmes was beautiful, almost angelic in his appearance and painfully young. From Mycroft’s account, the omega would be about twenty-four years old. Looking at the recording, John could easily have believed him to be a teenager.

The camera dwelled lovingly on the boy’s face for a few seconds more then zoomed out to show the entire bed including James Moriarty in shirtsleeves and black trousers perched on its edge.

“Hello Sexy.”

How John hated that taunting, off key voice. The evil bastard reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind the boy’s ear.

“Generally, I’m not a big one for omegas. Too needy and emotional. Hormones.” He singsonged, rolling his eyes. “But I have to admit that I find this one,” he ran one finger along a soft, pale cheek, “rather delectable. And the scent.” He leaned close to the boy’s face and inhaled deeply, “Sublime.”

Moriarty turned to fully face the camera.

“I was planning on making a little film. Nothing too highbrow. You know, something for the masses. Bit like Debbie Does Dallas but less,” the insane alpha smirked meaningfully at the camera, “consensual.” He leaned over the sleeping omega, took another deep breath and let it out with a beatific smile. “But I have to say, the more I learn about your baby brother Sherlock, the more I want. Not just super sexy, but super smart. Harvard at thirteen. Suma Cum Laude in biology and psychology by sixteen.” Sherlock stiffened and looked sharply at his older brother. “And I thought,” Moriarty curled a finger across his chin in a classic thinker’s pose, “I should get me some of that. A clever little plaything. Or maybe even,” he lifted his eyebrows theatrically, “a little Holmes-Moriarty baby. With genes like these,” he gestured between himself and the boy, “brilliance is practically guaranteed. Then Sherly, we’d be more than just two of a kind.” The sinister little smile was mocking and cruel. “We’d be family”

John’s skin felt too tight and there was a hard lump blocking his throat. He looked at the brothers. Mycroft had one hand covering his mouth, his eyes widened in silent horror. But Sherlock’s face was worse. At first glance it seemed devoid of any emotion. John knew him well enough to look again. Closer examination registered a racing pulse at his carotid artery and a small twitch along his cheek where his jaw was clamped down so hard he was probably fracturing teeth.

“Charringford.” Moriarty crooned softly to the sleeping omega. “Wakey, wakey.”

There was no response.

“Come on Sleeping Beauty.” Moriarty shook the boy by the shoulder and was rewarded with fluttering eyes and a soft groan.

“Curtain Call for Charringford Holmes. Your audience awaits Master Holmes.” Moriarty called cheerfully. He gently smoothed a hand over the boy’s hair before gripping it and tugging hard. The young omega’s face scrunched up in pain. A low, throaty growl made the hair on John’s neck stand on end. He slowly turned to look at his friend’s face. All pretence of emotional detachment had gone. There was murder in Sherlock’s eyes.

“There we go. Open your eyes Baby Holmes.” The camera zoomed in on the boy’s face again as he blinked blearily, clearly confused. But then his gaze steadied and fixed on one point. Moriarty’s face no doubt. John inhaled sharply. Sherlock’s eyes were mercurial – sometimes green, sometimes a very pale blue and sometimes an almost unearthly silver. They seemed to change colour depending upon the light and, John privately suspected, Sherlock’s mood. There was no such changeability about the colour of the eyes of the boy on the bed. They were blue - the blue of a summer sky on a cloudless day – crystal clear and strikingly beautiful.  
The camera zoomed out so that both the youngest Holmes and his captor were again visible. And then Charringford Holmes’ eyes did something unusual. They flicked over Moriarty – from face, to hands, to chest, to feet, to trousers, to face again. For a friend and partner of Sherlock Holmes, such behaviour was both familiar and unmistakeable.

“Oh!” squealed Moriarty, clearly delighted. “Baby Holmes, did you just deduce me? You did! Oh, that is just precious.” The young omega ignored him, turning his sharp scrutiny to his surroundings instead. A flash of something dark travelled across Moriarty’s face.

“So tell me,” he prompted. “What did you see?” The boy returned his gaze to the alpha beside him but said nothing.  
“Don’t be shy Charringford. Or do you prefer Charles now? Charlie perhaps?”  
“Charles is fine,” said the young man with surprising steadiness. “And how should I address you?”  
“Master would be nice,” quipped Moriarty. “Or maybe, Daddy?” The youngest Holmes arched a single, unimpressed eyebrow, then stretched stiffly and returned to studying the room, apparently disinterested in Moriarty’s antics. And that made John’s heart ache. Not only because the boy’s studied indifference poignantly reminded him of Sherlock, but because Charringford Holmes clearly wasn’t stupid. He had to be terrified. But the young omega was going to try to deny Moriarty the satisfaction of seeing his fear.  
It was a fight John knew Charringford could not win. Moriarty was too good at breaking people. If anything, Charringford’s attempts at defiance would only enhance the sick alpha’s enjoyment.

As if hearing John’s thoughts a nasty gleam lit in Moriarty’s eye.  
“I should have thought Charles that you would want to be a bit nicer to me under the current circumstances.” The omega gave a soft huff and to John’s amazement actually smiled - a small, sad smile,  
“But this isn’t about me Mr Moriarty. It’s about you, hurting my brothers. It doesn’t matter what I say or do. Does it?” He nodded at the camera. “Your agenda is pain and humiliation. There is not much use in either of us pretending otherwise.”  
Moriarty stared at the young omega.  
“Not boring at all,” he stated without a trace of mockery. He reached out and gently stroked the boy’s hair. Charringford stiffened but did not try to evade the alpha’s touch. “And yes, you’re right,” Moriarty conceded, nodding at the cameras, “humiliation is pretty much a given.” He leaned into the boy’s personal space. “Physical pain, however .... I am prepared to make physical pain negotiable ... if you make it worth my while.”  
Charringford stared hard at Moriarty.  
“I won’t pretend for you.”  
“Wouldn’t want you to,” the alpha answered without apparent malice. He reached over and lifted his jacket from the back of a nearby chair. There was a flash of crimson lining as he reached into the pocket and pulled out a capped syringe. “I anticipate you’ll be moaning and begging for my knot genuinely enough.” A heat inducer John realised, unsurprised but horrified nonetheless. “No Charles,” Moriarty continued, “all I require from you to keep this encounter pain-free is your obedience until your heat starts. Once biology kicks in, you won’t care. And afterwards ... well.” He shrugged with a nasty little, smile.

The youngest Holmes studied the needle. “Yes there is a dash of Fluoxicol in here,” Moriarty confirmed smugly, “just to add a certain special excitement.”  
Fluoxicol would both dramatically increase the intensity of the heat and negate all of the usual omega birth control medications. Evil, nasty, carping, rapist bastard, thought John in disgust.

The two locked eyes for a few moments, alpha and omega. Then without a word Charringford Holmes began to undo the button on his shirt cuff. He rolled the sleeve of his shirt up to bare his arm for the needle. Moriarty watched with hungry eyes.

“My, my Charles, what an absolute treasure you are turning out to be.”

 

The recording finished just after Moriarty administered the injection.

“Well?” Mycroft asked, his voice tense. Sherlock cleared his throat noisily and kept his eyes on the screen.

“From the shadows cast by the natural light from the balcony I would say this took place between seventy to eighty-five minutes ago. Moriarty’s nails have been professionally manicured in the last two days. His hair was trimmed around the same time. His suit has only been worn a handful of times. Reiss, but not Bartlett Street. Given the choice of lining I suspect it was made for the middle eastern market.”

  
“I concur. The cameraman?” Mycroft prompted. Sherlock nodded.

“No one else was in the room so he is likely Moriarty’s most trusted henchman. He cast a faint shadow due to the backlight from the kitchen. I would say male primary gender with a fit, muscular build. From the angle the film was taken he was at least six foot. The camera was handheld but remarkably steady. Given the imminent prospect of an omega in heat, even the most disciplined of alphas would normally be too aroused to maintain that level of fine motor control whilst surrounded by the scent of said omega. Which means that either the cameraman was a beta or he was wearing a scent blocking mask. There was something a little irregular about the shape of the shadow’s head so the latter is more likely. The steadiness could also suggest he has experience in the film industry - except the zoom out was too fast and a little jerky. So, he is more likely someone with unusually steady hands - possibly one of Moriarty’s snipers.”

“Agreed,” said Mycroft.

“The injection looked to be approximately 3 mls. From the colour it was most likely Topazetran. That dosage would normally induce a heat within twenty minutes, such heat lasting between four and six hours.” 

Mycroft nodded and took the deduction a step further.  “Which means they either moved him whilst he was still in heat or they cut the heat short chemically - an undesirable and dangerous choice either way. And a measure that they would only be likely to take if they had been warned we were coming.”

  
“A leak in your organisation?” Sherlock asked with evident concern.

“I did not involve the police or any other agency,” Mycroft noted icily. And at that moment he looked every bit the incredibly dangerous man his brother always reputed him to be.

Mycroft picked up the camera remote and a new recording started. It was still focussed on the circular bed but clearly some time had passed.

Charringford Holmes was rapidly going into heat.

The top three buttons of his shirt had been undone revealing a pale, elegant neck and a pink-flushed, smooth chest glistening under a fine layer of perspiration. His face was also glistening and his hair was darker and gathering in damp curls across his forehead. His eyes were steadfastly closed but from time to time he would tense or wince. Abdominal cramping was well underway. Not going into heat then, John concluded silently. Already there.

“How’s my Charles,” Moriarty entered the camera’s view from the left side of the frame. He inhaled deeply. “You smelt divine before ... but now.... “ Moriarty growled with approval and sank sensuously down onto the side of the bed. He held a wrist out close to the boy’s face. The young omega unconsciously swayed towards the alpha scent.

“Hmmm ... like that Charles?” Moriarty asked softly. “Do you like my scent? Why don’t you come closer so you can taste?” The boy bit his lip then shook his head. Moriarty watched him with the sharp attention of a circling hawk.

“Not very obedient Charles,” Moriarty taunted. “Don’t you remember our agreement?”

The boy shook his head again.

“Suggestion,” he gasped. Moriarty tilted his head,

“Suggestion?”

“Suggestion,” the boy confirmed. “Not ... an order. Not ... disobeying.” Moriarty gave an amused laugh.

“I suppose that’s true. Stubborn little thing, aren’t you. Pointless to fight it though Charles – given the way you look and smell, you won’t even be able to remember your own name soon, let alone make fine linguistic distinctions.” Suddenly, the master criminal straightened. “Oh, I see. You want me to order you. So that whatever you do is because I threatened you – rather than your own lust. Very tricky,” he chastised, clearly amused. “But I’m not going to order you Charles. I’m going to wait until you ask. You are going to have to say please.” His face darkened, “You are going to have to beg.”

He put on a simpering sotto voice. “Please Jim, touch me. Fill me. I need you. I need your big alpha knot. Pleeeeeeease!”

The young omega choked back a distressed noise that sounded almost like a whimper. Moriarty grinned.  
“Sherlock really should take better care of his omegas. Look at you Charles. It won’t be long. Once the dam bursts there will be no fighting it. You’ll happily give me everything.” He ran his eyes over the boy’s trembling body. “Everything.”  
John tasted bile. Quietly, he crossed the room to stand near the balcony door and stare out. The scent of distress both brothers were pouring out was almost unbearable. His instincts drove him to comfort them. But he couldn’t. He didn’t want to watch what was about to happen. He especially didn’t want to witness the pain that it would cause Sherlock.

But he would.

He owed it to Sherlock. Just as Sherlock and Mycroft owed it to their brother to keep watching in the hope that something on the recording would help them find him.

“It’s too hot for all these clothes,” cooed Moriarty’s soft lilt. “Why don’t you take that hot old shirt off?”  
“Cameras,” rasped the young omega. John turned back to look at the screen in time to see Moriarty jump up and briskly walked around the bed unplugging video cameras. The boy tracked him warily. When he had finished, the alpha slowly approached the bed and sat carefully on the edge again.  
“One camera,” Moriarty reassured. “A home video, just for the family. No one else.” Charringford was panting. Then he clutched his abdomen and a moan broke from his lips.  
For all his talk Moriarty was also struggling to stay in control. His breathing had picked up noticeably and his hands gripped the bed sheet with white knuckles. His dark eyes were now so dilated they were practically black.  
“No.”

The boy’s defiance elicited a frustrated roar from the alpha master criminal, no doubt accompanied by a huge dose of dominant alpha pheromones. The omega shivered then dropped his head and began to fumble with his shirt buttons. He peeled the sodden shirt off. Moriarty grabbed it and held it to his nose breathing in deeply, a blissful expression on his face.

“Perfect! Perfect!”

John shuddered. He was steeling himself to rejoin the brothers when an unexpected movement on the other side of the sliding door made him startle.  
A face. He was sure he had just seen a face peek over the side of the balcony. But that was impossible. They were over ten stories up. Then it appeared again. Startled blue eyes met his. Charringford Holmes blinked, stared at him for a moment, then started climbing over the side of the balcony railing.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, unable to believe what he was seeing. The boy was wearing a sheet wrapped around him like a toga. He landed on the balcony with a soft thump. The sound jarred away the last of John’s disbelief.

“Sherlock!”

John rushed to open the sliding door. He had just started to pull the handle across when he was physically lifted out of the way and the door yanked wide open letting in a blast of chilled air. Within moments the boy had all but disappeared, enveloped in a crushing hug between his two much taller, alpha brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter involves attempted drugged sex without consent. It's non-graphic and unsuccessful.
> 
> The idea of linking motion detectors to cameras to evade an electronic sweep was borrowed from Tishbing's WIP The Space Between. I don't know if it would work but it certainly struck me as a cute idea.


	3. Enter Charles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The older Holmes are in for a few surprises.

The three brothers stood on the balcony clinging to one another for quite some time. On the television screen Moriarty was trying to coax Charles to take off his trousers. John dove for the control and quickly stopped the recording.

John heard Mycroft remark with obvious concern,  
“..... half frozen.” He was trying to rub some warmth into one of the shivering omega’s hands. Sherlock’s Belstaff coat was already wrapped around the boy’s shoulders. With one on either side the Holmes alphas carefully herded their youngest brother into the apartment.  
“Are you certain you’re not injured?” Mycroft was asking, one hand rubbing the boy’s back soothingly. He shook his head.  
“We’re still going to need to get you checked over Charringford,” Mycroft insisted gently.  
“Not an alpha,” Sherlock whispered.  
“Not an idiot,” Mycroft responded over the boy’s head in a hiss.

  
The small group walked past John without a glance in his direction. He cleared his throat. No response. He did it again, this time with quite a bit more volume. Three heads swivelled to stare at him.

“Um, doctor,” he noted with a small wave, “and, not an alpha.” Charringford Holmes was the first to react. He smiled.

“Dr Watson, I presume.” The tone was confident and warm. John blinked in surprise.  
“Yes. Yes, that’s right,” he managed. The smile widened and Charringford slipped free of his stunned brothers and extended a hand,  
“Charringford Holmes. Although I prefer Charles.” John took the young omega’s hand which he noted was very cold indeed.  
“I’m pleased to meet you Charles,” he said calmly, slipping into doctor mode. “And your brothers are right. I should check you over.” He looked around the room for somewhere to carry out a brief examination. Not the bed. Definitely not the bed. There was a gaudy blue velvet couch against the back wall. He carefully took hold of Charringford’s, no Charles’s elbow and guided him in that direction.

Apart from being cold, which wasn’t surprising given the outside temperature in March eleven stories up, Charles was not exhibiting any of the usual signs of shock. He was alert and, judging by his scent, quite composed. In fact, the young omega did not seem distressed at all. Given what had happened that was a great big red flag right there.  
He gestured for Charles to take a seat and then sat down at a respectful distance beside him. They were pretty much the same height although the younger man was both slimmer and slightly broader in the shoulders. In real life a number of imperfections were more evident than they had been on the video recording. The young omega’s nose was quite large, his eyes were deep-set and he had more than a few freckles. None of it made him any less beautiful. If anything, in person his eyes were even more striking. They shone with intelligence and an enthusiastic interest in everything around him. His body was ideally proportioned with trim, well defined musculature. And his scent was fresh, warm, and extremely appealing – complex layers of sweet spices, tea and oak with overriding tones of warm honey.

John reached out slowly,

“May I?” Charles nodded and allowed John to take hold of his wrist. His pulse was a little fast but steady and strong. John gave the boy a small, encouraging smile,  
“Good.” He pinched the skin on the back of his hand gently. “A little dehydrated,” he noted. A flurry of movement at his shoulder caused him to glance up in time to see Sherlock hurrying back from the kitchenette holding a sloshing three quarter full glass of water.  
“Thank you Sherlock,” Charles said accepting it with a flicker of a smile. He took a couple of large sips and then cradled the glass in his lap. John realised that both alphas were still hovering which was, quite touching really, but not appropriate for what was about to be discussed. He drew in a deep breath ready to ask them to leave but the young omega cut him off,  
“They can stay.” John looked in surprise at Charles.  
“I don’t mind,” the boy continued, “as long as you aren’t planning on conducting a full examination.”  
“Uh, no. Not here. But you are entitled to privacy. And some of the questions I need to ask are very personal.” Charles nodded.  
“It won’t be a problem.” John frowned.  
“Not a problem?”  
“Mmm ... nothing happened. At least, not what you’re all worrying about.” John studied the boy.  
“So, to be clear .... there was no ...”  
“Sex. No.” John was aware of a tangible loosening on the part of both alphas. Sherlock let out a long shaky breath and ran his hands through his curls. Mycroft simply closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his expression was calmer but still very concerned.

John couldn’t begrudge the Holmes brothers their moment of relief, even if he worried that it was premature.

Deciding to press on with caution, John gently examined Charles’s neck and skull then used his hand to cover and uncover the boy’s eyes one by one, checking for pupil response. Everything was normal. He stood and bent close over the young man’s neck to check the wound from the sedative injection, stealthily taking the opportunity to have a discrete sniff. There was absolutely no trace of heat left in the boy’s scent.

“That’s fine, everything’s fine,” he reassured. Charles nodded and took another sip of his water.  
“We’ve watched some of the video footage Moriarty took,” John advised in a quiet, steady voice. “He injected you with something?”  
“Yes, he did,” Charles agreed. “Topazetran I believe, augmented by Fluxoicol.” John nodded. “And you’re wondering how I’m no longer in heat,” Charles continued, cutting to the heart of the matter.  
“Yes,” John agreed simply.

There were only a handful of explanations for an induced heat ending prematurely. With a healthy young omega there were really only two – chemical intervention or pregnancy. Whilst conception would not halt a natural heat, in rare instances even trace levels of omega pregnancy hormones could stop an artificial heat in its tracks.

“I’m not pregnant,” Charles reassured firmly, again appearing to read John’s thoughts as easily as a book. And then, somewhat incongruously, Charles quietly announced, “Moriarty is a cheat as well as a liar.” John shook his head,  
“I don’t understand ....”  
“Rularut!” exclaimed Sherlock, a little too loudly. Mycroft let out a long sigh of understanding,  
“The sluggish pupil response....”  
“Exactly,” agreed Charles. “Although I suspect he only took a small dose - just enough to give him an edge in our little battle of wills. Too much can result in performance issues, which I suppose would have been even more embarrassing than going feral.”  
“You used some of his tablets to counteract the effect of the Topazetran,” declared Sherlock. Charles didn’t say anything, just smiled – a small, slightly sad, enigmatic smile.  
John straightened with immediate concern. Rularut was taken by alphas who had difficulty not going into a dangerous, animalistic state when confronted by an omega in heat. Combining it with the unknown sedative and other medications could have potentially dangerous side effects.

“Charles, how many tablets did you take?” Blue eyes turned their attention back to him.  
“It’s alright John. I’m a biochemist. I understand drug interactions and I was very careful. I did have an elevated heartrate but it has since settled and the headache has subsided almost completely. Any danger is well past.”  
John took hold of Charles’s wrist to count out his pulse again. Steady and not too fast. There were no indicators that his blood pressure was high.  
Charles was right - the principal danger period had passed.

“You should still be closely monitored for the next twenty-four hours and I want full bloodwork done just to be sure,” John stated firmly.  
“Of course,” Charles agreed. John had already opened his mouth to counter the expected Holmsian protest and was left gaping for a few long moments before clicking it shut.  
“Uh, right. Good. That’s good.” He regathered his thoughts. “So, do you have any injuries?”  
“Nothing significant.”

Mycroft tapped his umbrella twice lightly on the floor. Charles turned to look up at him.  
“We found blood Charringford,” the auburn haired alpha noted. Not a smear or a few drops John remembered – but a soaked in, puddle of blood for which Charles had no external injuries to account. The boy flicked his gaze between his brothers then shook his head,  
“Not mine.” Sherlock twitched.  
“Whose?”  
“Moriarty’s,” Charles answered.  
“Moriarty’s?” Mycroft repeated frowning.  
“Yes,” confirmed Charles with just the slightest irritation, no doubt at having to repeat himself, “Moriarty’s. I knocked him out. His nose bled quite heavily.” He nodded towards the bed. “Over there.”  
John studied the youngest Holmes.  
“You were in a physical altercation with an alpha in full rut and you’re not injured at all?”  
“Jarred my hand a bit,” conceded Charles with a shrug, “otherwise I’m fine.”

Sherlock stooped down to examine Charringford’s right hand which John could now see was in fact slightly red over the knuckles.  
“What about the cameraman?” Sherlock asked, and there was an edge of interrogation in his tone. Charles, however, remained completely unruffled.  
“I got Moriarty to send him out of the room before I punched him.” Sherlock frowned.  
“Explain.” Definitely an interrogation thought John and decided that if Sherlock didn’t soften his approach soon he would intervene. Mycroft had evidently reached the same conclusion.  
“Sherlock,” the older alpha murmured in a low tone. Sherlock did not even acknowledge the warning.  
“How did you get the cameraman out of the room?”  
“It should all be recorded.” Charles gestured at the opposite wall where the television was affixed. “Perhaps it would be simplest if you just watched.”  
Sherlock gave his youngest brother a very long, measuring look that the omega met with impressive composure then stalked over to where the remote controls were resting. Mycroft gently squeezed Charles’s shoulder and followed. They restarted the recording but turned the volume way down. Charles took another sip from his glass and turned to John.

“I’m so very glad to have the opportunity to meet you Dr Watson,” Charles confided. “I’m a huge fan of your blog. More importantly, it’s wonderful to know that Sherlock has made such a good and true friend.” On the television screen, Moriarty was tossing Charles’ trousers onto the nearby chair. John surreptitiously observed his young patient but Charles appeared to be completely at ease.

“Um, thank you. And it’s John, please.” He considered for a moment. “I’m afraid I didn’t know you existed until about thirty minutes ago. You’ve been living in the United States?”  
“Since I was eleven.” John carefully lifted the boy’s right hand and began examining the knuckles. He had been seventeen when he’d enlisted in the army to secure funding for his university studies. It hadn’t been easy. He’d had to grow up fast. But he’d been one of many recruits all going through the same thing together. And he’d had family less than an hour away.

“You’ve been living under another identity?” John prompted, guiding Charles’s wrist through a gentle rotation, watching for any sign of discomfort.  
“Yes I have.” The young omega offered a charming smile, “Charles Francis Xavier – resident of New York City and Professor of Genetics at Columbia University at your service.” John smiled then gestured for the boy to curl his hand into a fist and open it again.  
“Mycroft said you’re only twenty-four.”  
“That’s right.”  
“And already a professor?”  
“I got tenure last year.” John chuckled with an impressed shake of his head,  
“So, another Holmes genius.” Charles’s cheeks and the tips of his ears blushed pink. He cleared his throat,  
“Just books and cleverness, John. I think your achievements are far more remarkable - a doctor and an army captain, and now keeping up with Sherlock.”  
From anyone else John would have dismissed it as idle flattery. With Charles, however, even given their short acquaintance, John suspected that he was completely sincere. He gave the young man a rueful smile,

“Not sure I’d call it keeping up. I just help when and where I can.”  
He asked Charles to loosen the sheet so he could check underneath and noted that the boy was still wearing his boxers. His skin was as pale and smooth as milk and largely unmarked except for some grazing over the ribs on the right side. There were minor, linear pressure marks under both armpits which had most likely occurred from some rough handling when the youth being carried or dragged.  
He nodded for Charles to readjust his sheet toga. He’d found no evidence of any serious injuries. But something was nagging at him. Finally, it clicked.

“Charles, aren’t you supposed to be in hiding? I mean, if someone was looking for you, how many twenty-four year old genius omegas can there be in the world?”  
Charles’s face glowed with approval,  
“That’s an excellent question John. But no, no one is supposed to be looking for Charringford Holmes - because Charringford Holmes isn’t missing. He was home schooled through his A levels then completed a degree in biochemistry externally through an omega friendly college when he was nineteen. He has been working as a research scientist at a very high level and incredibly secure British military base in Dartmoor for the past five years.” Charles’ eyes twinkled, “Actually, I believe you’ve been there.” John huffed a laugh and Charles’s amused twinkle turned into an impish grin,  
“There’s an omega fitting my description quartered inside the Baskerville. He’s rather shy, bit of a recluse really, and has been bonded to the alpha colonel in charge since he was eighteen. He uses his mate’s surname but goes under the first name of Charringford. They have receive letters, gifts and even occasional visits from my family. Well, apart from Sherlock of course. I don’t think Mycroft wants Sherlock anywhere near Baskerville ever again.”  
“Understandable,” John noted dryly.  
“Also, according to all written records, Charles Francis Xavier is twenty-nine, not twenty-four.” John shook his head.  
“You barely look twenty.”  
“Ah, but Professor Xavier dresses like he’s fifty ... tweed jackets, sweater vests, cardigans.” John suspected such clothes wouldn’t actually make Charles look any older, just like a youth borrowing from his grandfather’s wardrobe, but decided not to argue the point.  
“And,” continued Charles undaunted, “between Mummy and Mycroft there are no clear photographs of Charringford Holmes in the public domain and only a limited number of people who are familiar with my current appearance. I looked quite different before I left.”  
“Different? You don’t mean ....” Charles laughed softly. It was a warm, infectious, sound.  
“No, no, I haven’t had plastic surgery. But I had a highly questionable haircut and for the twelve month before I left I wore a pair of very large, very ugly black framed spectacles. I looked quite different, believe me.”  
“So you wear contacts now?” John asked. Charles shook his head,  
“Oh, I never needed the glasses. The glasses were just something to draw people’s focus. To people outside my immediate family, Charringford Holmes was the boy with the bad hair and the big glasses. Being constantly accompanied by a protection detail of heavily armed bodyguards, most people tended not to get too close.” John nodded.  
“My first heat didn’t arrive until I was almost eighteen by which time I had completed my undergraduate degrees and was obtaining my first masters. Up until then most assumed that as I was at university and had no scent then I must be a beta.”

And now John realised that Charles was watching him with a very understanding look. Heavy thumping filled his ears. He glanced across at Sherlock and Mycroft but they were still engrossed in Moriarty’s increasingly agitated attempts to get Charringford to part with his underwear. He shook his head slightly, trying to regain his composure and was relieved when his voice came out even and relatively calm,

“Sounds like a lonely way to grow up.”

Charles sighed.

“It was.” He turned to look across the room at his brothers. “But I’ve built a life I’m quite proud of. And I’m not a child anymore.”

 

 

“Alpha?”

The word sent a chill down John’s spine. It was Charles’s voice. But it wasn’t. It was the voice of his omega - the instinctive part that took control during heat.

They both turned to look at the television. On screen Charles was still wearing his navy boxers but was now staring at Moriarty with wide-eyed longing. The criminal mastermind had stripped down completely and was obviously, visibly highly aroused.

“Finally!” The alpha grinned and reached out a hand to cup the boy’s face. “Come on sweetheart. Come to me. Come to your alpha.” The onscreen Charles looked at Moriarty consideringly. Then he looked at the camera.  
“Don’t worry about the camera baby,” Moriarty crooned. “Come here.” The young omega inhaled slowly then stared at the camera intently.  
“Alpha?” The camera wobbled.

Oh, John thought. Oh, that _is_ clever.

A scowl flashed over Moriarty’s face. He glared at the camera.  
“Leave,” he demanded flatly.  
“But Jim .... “ a deep voice began.  
“Leave. And don’t watch,” Moriarty screeched, his eyes burning.  
“Jim, are you ...”

  
“ **Mine**!”

It was a roar, primal and full of the promise of blood. The camera jerked back. The panting of the cameraman rattled through the camera’s microphone.

“I’ll... I’ll just ...” the edge of a placating hand could be seen at the side of the picture,  
“Definitely a sniper” murmured Sherlock.  
The image bobbed as the cameraman walked backwards. Then it flicked around showing a brief shot of the man’s lower legs and shoes before being righted and set on a hard, stable surface, still pointed at the bed.  
“Ex military,” noted Mycroft.  
“Going, I’m going Jim,” the deep voice soothed and there were hurried, shuffling sounds as the cameraman left the room, his every step clearly being tracked by an extremely possessive Moriarty in full combative rut.

“Now who can’t control their bloody hormones,” noted John with quiet satisfaction, only to have both Holmes alphas turn and stare at him from across the room. He kept his face neutral, lifted his chin slightly and met their eyes. After a few moments, they turned back to the screen. He saw Charles’ mouth curl upwards from the corner of his eye.

No, he decided, definitely not in shock.

“Alpha,” came the soft plea of the Charles onscreen. “Please alpha.” Moriarty rumbled a happy “mine” and reached forwards ....

There was a blur of movement and the alpha reared back gurgling and clutching at his throat. He stumbled off the edge of the bed, barely managing to stay on his feet. The Charles onscreen swiftly moved to follow. There was a short tussle by the side of the bed as Charles pulled the alpha around to face him and then the omega’s fist shot out again and the alpha crumpled and lay motionless on the ground.

“Jesus!” John whispered.

Onscreen Charles flexed and shook his hand a few times then moved across to the nearby chair and dipped into the pocket of Moriarty’s jacket hanging over its back. He pulled out a small bottle of pills and a mobile phone. He tossed the bottle onto the bed and started pressing buttons and scrolling through screen pages on the phone. After a short time, he made a light scoffing noise,

“Only one camera? Really?” He glared at the ceiling where the camera behind the light fitting had been hidden. Then he raised the mobile and started taking photographs of the unconscious Moriarty, including close up’s of both his bloodied face and still obvious erection. After snapping off at least a dozen shots he straightened and pressed more buttons on the phone.

He glanced up at the ceiling,

“I’ve just sent those images to a secure email address,” he declared to the room at large. “I’m also taking the video camera. Should any footage of what happened here today become public ...? Well... I’ll be more than happy to share the full story with your clients and competitors, including the rather embarrassing manner in which this encounter concluded.” He pressed more buttons, flipped the phone over and removed its sim card then tossed it onto the floor next to Moriarty’s head. The alpha gave a low groan. Charles strode off-screen only to return a few moments later with a filled syringe. He jabbed it into the unconscious alpha’s thigh without preamble and depressed the plunger. Then he knelt down beside Moriarty, lifted his nearest leg to bend at the knee, placed his arm across his chest, and rolled him into the recovery position.

Finally, the omega glared directly at the screen. The image shook as he lifted the camera. Then the screen went blank.

John turned to see blue eyes studying him, clearly interested to see how he would react.

He looked down, licked his lips and shook his head slowly,

“That was ........ amazing! Absolutely bloody amazing!” John felt his mouth stretch into a huge grin. Charles grinned back. Then they turned to find Sherlock and Mycroft watching at them.

And neither alpha was smiling.


	4. Don't tell Mummy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone's in trouble.....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to break one of the chapters up a bit as it was incredibly long, hence the increased chapter count.

For over a minute no one spoke.

The elder Holmeses exchanged one of those long, intense looks that equated to a private conversation. Then all of their attention returned to be very firmly focussed on their youngest brother.

The alphas stepped away from one another and circled towards the blue sofa from opposite directions.

“Well, this should be interesting,” Charles breathed. John glanced at the young omega. His face was composed but he smelled nervous. John could understand why. Sherlock and Mycroft reminded him of a pair of lions closing in on their prey. His own spine stiffened and he pressed his feet firmly into the floor.

“That was amazing Charringford,” began Mycroft. “Quite remarkable.”  
“Thank you,” Charles said carefully.  
“I do have to wonder, however, why it was necessary.” The young omega remained silent, his eyes flicking between his elder brothers. Mycroft carefully scrutinised the carved handle of his umbrella. “I wonder this because I very clearly recall telling you only last week not to come to London at this time.” He looked up to fix the young omega with an intense gaze. Charles swallowed but did not answer. Mycroft took another step forward. John glanced at Sherlock and saw that he had silently moved so that he was again adjacent to the balcony’s sliding door.  
Charles stared at his hands which were neatly folded in his lap. John felt his own hands bunch into fists but forced himself to remain still.  
“Charringford?” Mycroft persisted, his voice tightly controlled. The young omega took a deep, slow breath. When his raised his head his blue eyes were as impenetrable as sapphires.

“I prefer Charles now, Mycroft,” responded the boy steadily.

The eldest Holmes stiffened with shock. John really couldn’t blame him. Alphas were driven to protect their pack, especially the omegas. The corollary of this was that, in situations of danger, omegas were expected to defer to and obey their pack alphas. Charles’ refusal to offer either an apology or an explanation challenged the alpha status of both Sherlock and Mycroft. The air bristled. Mycroft’s voice hardened,

“Why did you come to London, _Charles_?” Both alphas moved closer. Charles held Mycroft’s gaze, kept his back straight and his voice firm.

“People I care about very deeply needed my help.” The alphas exchanged a frown.

“What people?” Mycroft demanded.

Before Charles could reply there was a rapid series of knocks at the door. A few moments later Anthea stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her.  
“Sir, I’m sorry but you need .... “ She froze when she saw Charles. Mycroft’s expression twisted with displeasure,  
“Is there an immediate threat?” he asked tersely. Anthea shook her head, apparently unable to speak. It was the first time John had seen the beautiful beta flustered.  
“Then please wait outside.”  
“But, sir ....”  
“Now, Anthea.” When she still failed to move immediately Mycroft roared,  
“OUTSIDE!” The air filled with some of the most potent alpha pheromones John had ever encountered. Anthea went white with shock. She opened her mouth, closed it again and scurried out. Her employer continued to glare at the door for a few moments. Then he turned his attention back to his youngest brother.

“Who asked you to come to London?” Mycroft demanded, his voice dangerously low. Charles’s response was somewhat hesitant,

“No one.”

Mycroft bent his head and pinched the top of his nose between two fingers. Charles worried his lower lip.  John shot a glance at Sherlock. The detective did not appear to be angry. Instead, he was regarding his youngest brother with an expression that John had come to associate with a particularly perplexing puzzle.

Mycroft was now no more than six feet away from the blue sofa.

“No one,” Mycroft repeated softly. “Am I to understand that you came to London in defiance of my direct order so that you could provide assistance to people who had not even sought your help?” Charles considered the question for a moment.

“Yes.”

“ **Francis Charringford Alexander Xavier Horatio Ganymede Holmes!** ”

  
Incredibly powerful, alpha pheromones exploded through the air, overwhelming the youngest Holmes who gasped and lowered his head, exposing his vulnerable neck in a classic display of omega submission. John was suddenly thankful that he had remained seated because his own knees had turned to jelly. It took all of his strength to keep his head upright.

When Mycroft finally did speak, his tone was icy.

“One of your brothers is a renowned detective and a consultant to Scotland Yard. The other has access to the full resources of the British Government including the police and the secret service. Did it never occur to you, Charringford, that if your friends were in trouble you did not have to deal with it alone? Did it never occur to you to ask for help?”  
The young omega kept his head bowed and remained silent, seemingly unable to respond.

  
Mycroft seethed. And glared. And then finally sighed.

And with that sigh all of the anger seemed to drain out of the tall alpha.

Sherlock had once told John that Mycroft had such rigid control that if he chose to he could regulate not only his face and body language, but also his pheromones. Right now he began emitting a scent intended to be calming and reassuring. He bent down on one knee before his youngest brother so that their faces were level. When he spoke his tone was gentle.

“It’s going to be alright. We will keep you safe Charringford. No matter what it takes.”

“ **Oh no! Oh God! No**!!!”

John normally maintained at least a low level awareness of Sherlock at all times. But he had become so swept up in the drama playing out in right front of him that he had momentarily forgotten the detective. Now every pair of eyes in the room fixed on his friend. Mycroft sprang to his feet, instantly on alert.

“Sherlock?”

The detective strode forward his face set in an expression of horror,

“Charringford! Tell me you didn’t!”

Charles lifted his head and gave Sherlock a tiny, almost apologetic smile.

“What?!” shouted Mycroft, at the absolute end of his tether. Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath,  
“The Great Game, the Tower, the Trial – all in the public realm to one extent or another .... and then you tell him he can’t come to London.” Sherlock swallowed, “Charringford, please say you came on your own. That you didn’t tell ......”

“Of course he told me!” snapped a short, plump woman as she stalked into the apartment. John caught a glimpse of Anthea’s tense face as she quickly re-closed the front door.

The new entrant glowered at both alphas as she marched towards them.

She didn’t look terrifying. In fact, she looked like an attractive and rather stylish grandmother. Her clothes had been chosen with impeccable taste and her short, snow white hair was styled in a slightly longer pixie cut that framed her face and emphasised what was perhaps her most striking feature - her eyes. They were incredibly intelligent, crystal clear and very blue.

As she approached, John caught the delicate scent of roses and tea and complex layers of spice that held something elusively familiar. This woman was an omega - but there was nothing deferential or submissive in her manner. She exuded authority.

She came to a halt no more than six feet away from Mycroft and Sherlock, and glared up at both of them with the intensity of a regimental sergeant major. Both alphas dropped their gaze.

She stepped between them and up to Charles who stood to greet her.

“Okay sweetheart?” She reached out to cup his cheek.  
“Fine,” he assured. She nodded and held out a tote bag,  
“You should probably shower and get dressed dear. I wouldn’t want you to catch a chill.”  Charles took the bag and bent to kiss her cheek.  
“Thank you Mummy.”

Mummy?

John glanced at two pale and now distinctly sick looking alphas. The boy took a couple of steps towards the bathroom then stopped.

“Mycroft, Sherlock – I’m very sorry for worrying you,” he said solemnly before vanishing into the small side room.

Mummy Holmes waited until the bathroom door had completely closed then turned slowly. Any warmth in her demeanour had departed with her youngest son.

“What were your words Mycroft?” she asked in a hard, flat tone. “You shouted them loudly enough. Oh yes,” she levelled them both with an arctic blue gaze, “Did it never occur to you to ask for help?” The two alphas exchanged a furtive glance. Mycroft opened his mouth, no doubt to defend himself, but Mummy wasn’t finished,  
“Clearly you knew the situation was grave. So grave in fact that you, Mycroft, took the extraordinary step of feeding an obsessed master criminal confidential information about Sherlock’s personal history.”  
John felt a cold tingle creep up his spine. Mycroft gaped.  
“How did you ...?” The tall alpha snapped his mouth shut and pursed his lips, obviously struggling to regroup. “You don’t understand. The extent of Moriarty’s organisation – his web....” Mycroft paused, his next words carefully measured.  
“The decision to disclose some of Sherlock’s history was not made lightly.” He glanced at his brother who gave a small nod. “Nor was it made by me.”  
Mummy Holmes stiffened in surprise. She stared at Sherlock.  
“It was your idea?”  
“Yes.” John took a shaky breath. What the hell?  
“I see.” Mummy Holmes looked between the two alphas.  
“To what purpose?”  
Again there was a silent exchange between the brothers following which Mycroft turned to address their mother.

“The problem has never been capturing or killing James Moriarty. He allowed himself to be caught red-handed in an act normally regarded as high treason. He then proceeded to make a mockery of our legal system and, after his acquittal, practically surrendered himself to me for interrogation. I watched him smirk and grin through sleep deprivation, starvation, beatings, electrocution and drugs. For each day of his captivity one of our people was assassinated or compromised.” Mycroft’s voice and face were impassive, but the knuckles gripping his umbrella were white.  
“I held him for twenty-six days. Twenty-six people lost their lives.” John swallowed.  
“Moriarty went through this ordeal, and believe me,” Mycroft stated coldly, “I made certain that it was an ordeal, to demonstrate that any interference by me would be repaid tenfold - a hundredfold. He did this because he was ready to start a new game with Sherlock. A game he calls The Final Problem. A game he intends to win.”  
“And what game is that?” asked Mummy Holmes quietly.  
Mycroft straightened to his full height,  
“The Fall of Sherlock Holmes.”

John stared at his hands, heart pounding. Bloody Holmeses and their talent for drama. It shouldn’t be a surprise. He’d known after the pool that it wasn’t over. That it would never be over until one of them was dead. Still, to hear it said so unequivocally ... and to know that Moriarty’s plan was actually underway. He lifted his head and was surprised to find Sherlock staring at him intently. He forced himself to meet his friend’s eyes then gave a small, sharp nod. I’m with you. Whatever madness that insane bastard comes up with, I’m with you.

He slowed tuned back into the conversation. Mycroft was still talking.

“He believes Sherlock has challenged him. His dominance. His intellect. And he is determined to prove that he is better. If we kill or capture Moriarty now, he would regard this as a fundamental breach of the rules of the game he has initiated. During his incarceration he made it clear that any interference by me in his dealings with Sherlock would be heavily penalised. I have no doubt that he already has measures in place - measures that would wreak chaos and devastation on not only this country, but quite possibly the world.”

“The only way to beat him,” Mycroft continued, “is to let him think he has won. That Sherlock has fallen and is no longer a threat. Only then will we be in a position dismantle Moriarty’s network covertly.”  
Mummy Holmes sighed, then quietly said,

“Lazarus.”

Both alphas blinked with shock. She shook her head,  
“Not a good strategy. A desperate strategy with too many uncontrollable variables. Too many ways to go horribly wrong. Even if everything went according to plan, Sherlock’s reputation would be ruined.”  
“Unimportant,” the detective muttered.  
“His family and allies shamed and humiliated,” Mummy Holmes continued undaunted.  
“Necessary,” Sherlock conceded unhappily. “To keep you all safe.”  
Mummy Holmes’s flinty expression softened a little.  
“I have taken a very special interest in James Moriarty since your little standoff with him at the pool,” she advised her middle son. “His network is immense. For one man to cripple the most important parts of it, even a man as capable as you working with your brother’s not inconsiderable support, would take years.”  
“I estimate six months,” Sherlock said stiffly. “But if it takes years, then that is a price I am willing to pay.”  
John remembered, with some effort, to breathe. He did so as quietly and as unobtrusively as possible. Now was not the time to demand answers. Not when Mummy Holmes was already asking all the right questions.

The woman in question turned to study the apartment around them.  
“Moriarty didn’t learn about your brother’s alternate identity or that he was coming to Britain until three days ago. I know this for a fact because I am the one who arranged for him to find out.”  
Even Mycroft was shocked.  
“You deliberately ....” he stammered.  
“Yes,” she confirmed. “I did. At Charles’s suggestion.” Mycroft shook his head,  
“Why ... why would you let him ...?”  
She gestured around her.  
“This place ... the circular bed, the cameras - was set up nearly two weeks ago - before Moriarty knew about Charles.” She held Sherlock’s gaze. “I understand James Moriarty has used a beta acquaintance of yours in the past to get close to you Sherlock. Dr Molly Hooper. How do you think Dr Hooper would cope with being drugged? Raped? Impregnated? With the constant possibility of a video of the event being sent to colleagues, new lovers .... or simply posted on the internet? Knowing Moriarty, he’d probably find a way to put it on every television screen in the nation. It would quite likely destroy her. Is that a price you are prepared to pay?”  
Sherlock was visibly shaken. Mycroft looked no better. John’s heart was pounding, blood rushing in his ears. He bit down hard on his cheek and forced himself to remain silent and still.  
“And of course,” Mummy Holmes continued relentlessly, “there is also the issue of the effect of such an event upon your own ‘strategy.’ Even if Moriarty released Dr Hooper afterwards, do you really believe she would still be in a fit state to assist you? Her role in your plan to come back from the dead does seem to have been somewhat pivotal.”

“ **Your what!?** ”

Okay, so much for sitting back and listening. John sprang to his feet, his body taunt with outrage.

“What _is_ going on Sherlock? Come back from the dead! Normally that means you need to die first! What the hell were you planning?”

Sherlock didn’t answer him. Didn’t even seem to be able to look at him. Mycroft also kept his gaze averted, studying the handle of his umbrella with apparent fascination.

“And just what role did you clever pair of bastards have scripted for me in this bloody insane scheme of yours?” John demanded. He caught Mummy’s eye.  
“Apologies Mrs Holmes,” he noted respectfully.

“Quite alright Dr Watson,” she murmured.

He bit his cheek again and waited, but neither Sherlock nor Mycroft seemed to have anything to say.  
“As you aren’t actually Lazarus Sherlock, or the second coming, I assume you were going to fake your death.” Sherlock nodded morosely staring at the carpet. A horrible suspicion crystallised into a dreaded certainty. John asked the question anyway.

“You weren’t going to let me in on it, were you? You were going to let me think you were dead.”

His friend’s answer was a sulky, guilt-ridden silence. John clenched his jaw and ground out,

“You stupid berk! You colossal idiot!”

And now Sherlock looked at him, his pale eyes blazing with wounded alpha pride.

“Moriarty’s promised to burn me John,” he snarled. “He means to destroy me and he will use everything that he believes is important to me -my reputation, the Work, the people I ... my family, Mrs Hudson ... you - until he believes that he has beaten me.”

John shook his head.

“You don’t face it alone Sherlock. That’s what he wants. You. Alone.”

For a moment Sherlock looked stricken. Then his friend’s face closed off. His tone turned cold and aloof,

“Make no mistake John. Alone protects me. I am strongest alone.”

It was like a physical blow. John took a small involuntary step back.

At that moment the bathroom door swung open and Charles, freshly showered and comfortably dressed in a white button up shirt, black pants and a cobalt blue sweater vest entered the room. He turned to his mother,

“Are we ready?”

“I believe they are prepared to accept that their plans may have had a few holes.” Mummy observed wryly. John couldn’t help a disgusted scoff. Charles eyes flicked between the doctor and his middle brother but he said nothing.

Mycroft took an impatient step forward. He glared at his mother, “Clearly there is a great deal you are yet to tell us. Nothing you have told us so far explains why you deemed it appropriate to dangle Charringford in front of a sadistic murderer. If it was a matter of foiling this plan, there were other, safer ways to accomplish that end.”

“Obviously,” Mummy said calmly. She exchanged a look with her youngest.

“The foyer?” he asked.

“Emptied of all but personnel vetted by me personally.”

“Jammers off?”

“Took care of that before I came in.”  Mycroft stiffened. Mummy turned to him with a sigh.

“We’ve been closely monitoring this place for over a week. I know where the cameras are. We have disarmed all the triggers. My people are also performing continuous sweeps.” The tall alpha gave a reluctant nod.

“Then I think we should bring in our friends,” Charles suggested.

Mummy nodded her approval and the omega strode past them to the front door which he opened without preamble.


	5. The X-team Arrive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unlike his brothers, Charles has a knack for making friends.

Three men filed past Charles carrying a variety of electronic equipment.  The omega closed the door behind them.

John glanced at the Holmes brothers. Sherlock was impassive. Mycroft’s eyes narrowed and his lips turned slightly downwards. Then suddenly, the briefest expression of shock flashed across his face.

  
John quickly turned back to study the group who had just entered. The man in the lead, there was something familiar ....

“Jesus!” The dark haired man straightened from where he was setting up a laptop on the dining table to smirk at John.

“No, although you’re not the first to be confused.” John let out a startled laugh. The voice and the massive ego were unmistakeable. Tony Stark! The whole world knew Stark, especially after the events in New York.

In the flesh, John had to admit he found the brilliant alpha far more attractive than he would have expected. On television his body was generally hidden beneath bespoke suits or his Ironman armour. Today, however, Stark was wearing a tight fitting long sleeved t shirt and jeans which showed to full advantage his fit, rather nicely built physique. A glowing blue circle rested over his heart. Stark’s intelligent, dark chocolate eyes were matched with a warm, dark chocolate, scent that was rich and wickedly seductive. Even the goatee, which John had always thought a ridiculous affectation, he now found rakishly attractive.

He licked his lips.

The smirk widened.

Charles stopped beside the genius engineer.

“Anything come through yet Tony?” The smirk vanished to be replaced by a look that was both concerned and fond. Stark pulled the young omega into a gentle, one-armed hug.

“Okay Charlie boy?” Charles smiled,  
“Fine.” Tony studied him closely then nodded.  
“If I’d known how you’d be planting everything on that evil son of a bitch I’d never would have allowed it.” He shot a cold look at Mummy Holmes.  
“Not my favourite part of the plan either,” admitted Charles, “but necessary my friend.” Stark gave an ambivalent hum and turned one of the computer screens around so Charles could also see.  
“Well .... it worked.”

Charles leaned over the table studying the screen.

“Dear God!” The smirk returned.

“Again, he couldn’t make it but ... “ Charles laughed,  
“Shut up Tony.” The young omega returned to staring at the monitor.  
“This is outstanding my friend! And the biometric uploads seem to be working perfectly Hank!” He turned to face a tall, gangly youth in thick glasses standing behind them.  
“Truly outstanding!” The youth, a beta, almost glowed under Charles’ approval.  
“McCoy’s coming to work for me,” Stark advised from where he was tapping away at a keyboard.  
“I ... What!?” Hank started in surprise.  
“Huge salary. Luxury car of your choice. Your own lab with all the toys you want ....”  
Charles smiled.  
“He’s finishing his doctorate first. And then I’m sure Hank will be pleased to consider any and all offers ... “ Stark grinned.  
“Really obscenely, huge salary. And your own suite in the recently refurbished Avengers Tower.”

“Can we save the staffing negotiations until after we have completed the current mission please gentlemen?” Mummy Holmes interjected severely. The boy, “Hank” turned bright red and ducked down to hide behind his computer screen. Stark growled softly but shut up. Charles smiled.

“I take it there is progress Mr Stark,” prompted Mummy. Stark answered without looking up.“From the timing of calls and computer searches, I’d say Moriarty woke up about eighteen minutes ago. And he has been a very busy boy.”

“Calls and computer searches?” intoned Mycroft slowly. “You’re monitoring Moriarty’s private communications?” Stark let out a short, unamused laugh,

“Not only can I tell you when he scratches an itch, I can tell you where, how hard and which finger he uses. Although there’s only one thing he seems interested in at the moment ...” He glanced up at Charles who met his concerned look with calm acceptance.

“How?” Mycroft did not raise his voice. It was a demand none the less.

Charles answered.

“We needed close contact. Preferably contact initiated by Moriarty himself. We’ve been trying to covertly monitor his communications since we realised he was a threat, but he’s very careful. Changes sim cards multiple times a day. Uses codes for conversations of any importance. His email encryption is unbreakable.”

“Not anymore,” chimed in the third man without looking away from the three screens set up in front of him.

“Brilliant!” exclaimed Charles. Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the third man.

“Yes. As for you ......”

“Not now .... “ Mummy said tersely, flicking her eyes at Stark. Mycroft glared at her but held his peace.

“Quentin’s coming to work for me too,” sniped Stark, glancing between Mummy and Mycroft to watch the effect of his barb.

“Quentin has a job,” stated Mummy firmly, “as you have already been told.”

 

John studied “Quentin” as he outlined the complex mathematical formulas Moriarty was using in his encryption program. Oxbridge accent, mid to late twenties, slender, thick brown hair that was wavy on top and a finely featured and attractive face hidden behind a pair of rather large, black framed glasses. Oh – and evidently another genius. He inhaled subtly. Omega. His scent was very pleasing and – familiar. He glanced at Charles and Mummy Holmes. Another brother? Not likely from what Mycroft had said about their family history and the scent was similar but not close enough for siblings. Cousin perhaps?

  
He looked away from the young man in question and directly into the pale jade gaze of his best friend. Sherlock immediately turned away and moved closer to the men working at the computers.

  
“What exactly have you done?” Mycroft demanded.  
“Moriarty changes his sim cards frequently and requires everyone in his network to regularly scan their phones for spyware,” Charles advised, stepping forwards. “Quentin developed a Nano virus which is capable of being stored in an incredibly small amount of memory. It’s only function is to deactivate the parts of a phone’s coding that notify the user that it is connected to the internet and then go online to a secure website. From there we can download all the information on the phone, upload information including monitoring software or even make calls or send texts that appear to be coming from that number without the user being aware. The phone also acts as an open microphone.”  
“We own his ass,” Stark commented cheerfully.  
“Useful information,” Mycroft said stiffly, “but it doesn’t matter how small this virus is, it will be detected - most likely sooner than later.”  
“Normally that would be correct,” Quentin noted, “but after we got everything we could from Moriarty’s phone and sent the virus to every number he had called, we scrubbed Moriarty’s mobile and uploaded the Nano virus onto his Bluetooth headset instead - which he doesn’t change or scan.” Mycroft frowned.  
“Headsets do not have any memory to download onto.”  
“They have a very small amount of memory for buffering,” Tony corrected. “Enough for Quentin’s Nano virus to hole up in and reinfect each new simcard.” Mycroft straightened.  
“Well, that is useful,” he conceded. “Very useful.”  
“Tony’s idea,” Quentin noted cheerfully. “Although, it’s not the only weapon in our arsenal.”  
“How so?”  
Quentin gestured at the beta.  
“Hank’s invention is the real heavy hitter here.” The beta swallowed nervously and pushed his glasses back up his nose.  
“I’ve been working on software to interpret biometric vibrations in a similar manner to a cochlear implant except far more sensitive and refined. About a month ago, Charles asked if we could modify the software to enable us to effect remote surveillance.”  
“Moriarty will dispose of everything he was wearing today,” Sherlock stated adamantly. “Your device will be found and destroyed.” He frowned at the computer monitor in front of McCoy which was apparently receiving reams of fresh data. “I’m surprised he hasn’t found it already.”  
“He won’t find it where I put it,” Charles noted pleasantly. “I planted the object on him internally.”

There was a profoundly uncomfortable silence as Mycroft and Sherlock both stared at their youngest brother appalled.

Charles shook his head, his lips curling into a mischievous smirk. 

“I jammed it up his nose.”  
“Which was already sore from your blow,” Sherlock observed with grudging approval.  
“Sore, but not broken,” agreed Charles. “I was very careful about that. Hank’s device is small enough that even a physical examination shouldn’t risk detection. Hopefully, in his urgency to avenge his injured pride, Moriarty will not seek more extensive treatment. Provided he stays away from any sort of radiological imaging, we should be fine.”  
Mycroft narrowed his eyes,  
“One wonders, baby brother, where a college professor learned to deliver such a precise...” The auburn haired alpha stiffened and his face twisted with anger. “That bloody lumberjack!” Charles sighed. Mycroft seethed, “I never approved...”

“Mycroft.” Mummy Holmes’ crisp voice sliced through the conversation like a scalpel. “I did.”

The eldest Holmes brother glared but fell silent. She nodded at Hank McCoy to continue. He pushed his glasses up his nose again although they had hardly had a chance to slip down.

  
“Um, well, as Charles has said, my device interprets the vibrations of speech and other biometric information. Using the video recording from this morning as a baseline, I have been able to refine the interpretation of those readings so that we can understand whatever Mr Moriarty says.” He bent down over his laptop keyboard and began to punch keys at an almost inhuman speed, “This is what he is saying right now.”

The speakers on the laptop crackled then a computerised voice came through. It wasn’t as fluid as a normal human voice but still leagues above similar devices John had seen used by patients who had suffered removal of their larynx. It even captured Moriarty’s lilt.

_“....... activate the camera on the driveway to the Iceman’s mansion.” There was a soft, incoherent murmuring._   
_“I want constant monitoring.” More murmuring._   
_“Anything from immigration yet?” John could almost interpret the blurred response as no. “I want teams at the Chunnel and every airport and major ferry terminal carrying out visual checks on all last minute bookings involving Caucasian omega or beta males under forty.” The murmurs started but were cut off harshly, “I don’t care. All of them. Put as many people as you need on it.” There was a prolonged silence. John glanced at the boy Hank wondering if he had switched the feed off but the young beta stood with his head slightly inclined, listening patiently. The background murmuring started again, louder than before, as though the speaker was now standing right next to Moriarty._   
_“Let it roll. Maybe the Holmes boys will waste some time following the breadcrumbs.”_

Breadcrumbs?

John reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a padded yellow envelope with an old fashioned red wax seal. A long fingered, white hand closed over his before he could open it.

  
“Where did you get this?” John blinked up into Sherlock’s sharp gaze.

“It was leaning against our front door this morning - when I stopped in to pick up my....” he clamped down on the word gun and said instead “medical kit.” Sherlock peered inside, sniffed and rubbed a small quantity of the contents between his fingers.

Breadcrumbs.

 _"Give the children their sweeties and leave them,”_ said the voice over the computer. _“Oh, and tell the maid to service the room.”_ Mycroft pulled out his phone and hastily began to scroll through his messages.

  
“The US ambassador’s children are missing,” he said thoughtfully. “A girl and boy aged 7 and 9 years respectively - taken from their boarding school last night. We have just received a formal request for Sherlock’s assistance. A request to which,” he glanced around the apartment, “I have not been able to acquiesce.”

Mummy Holmes nodded,

“Breadcrumbs. Sweeties. Missing children. Hansel and Gretel.”

Charles quickly turned to the three men at the computer terminals, “Do we have anything that can help find them?”  
“

On it,” murmured Stark darkly. Hank and Quentin lowered their heads over their respective keyboards. John had thought Hank McCoy typed quickly but Quentin’s fingers were a soft tapping blur of small, economical movements.

“Moriarty did not intend either of you to know that he had taken Charles,” Mummy Holmes noted quietly to Sherlock. “Not yet. Probably not until just before he completed “burning” you. At which time, Charles’s safety would have been threatened if you failed to comply with his orders. Or if Mycroft tried to interfere. Right now,” she gestured at the envelope containing the breadcrumbs, “you were meant to be busy searching for these children.” She turned her gaze to Mycroft. “By the way, Saunders was acting on my orders when he took Moriarty’s money to suppress the CCTV footage.”

Mycroft scowled.

“Got something!” Hank blurted out. “This is from forty minutes ago.”

Moriarty’s computerised voice came through,

_“We don’t need four men at Addlestone. Bring two back to help. Leave the doppelgänger and the maid.”_

“Didn’t he say something about servicing the room?” John asked.

“Clean up,” Mycroft commented grimly.

“Addlestone. Addlestone. Addlestone.” Sherlock was chanting softly, fingers braced on either side of his temples. Then he lifted his head with a start.

“Sweeties!”

“Go on,” John prompted.

“A plain kidnapping is not enough for Moriarty. Too boring. Too ordinary. He’s recreating a story – Hansel and Gretel. Where the children are being held will be significant. Symbolic. There’s a cluster of disused factories at Addlestone. We need to see if any of them was once a sweet factory.”

“Couldn’t it just as easily be a picturesque cottage in the woods?” Mycroft asked dryly. Sherlock had his head down, fingers flying over his phone.

“It could,” he conceded, “but a deserted warehouse would lessen the risk of being seen or disturbed.”

“Moriarty received an email four weeks ago,” Quentin advised without looking up from his screen. “Attached are photos of an empty factory. I’m comparing it to satellite images of factories located near Addlestone.” He looked up, “I have a match.”

“I’ve got my suit,” Stark said standing up. “I can be there in minutes.”

“Wait!” Mycroft and Mummy said at the same time.  
“Those kids might not have time!” Stark glowered, hefting a polished aluminium case off the floor.

Charles pulled open the sliding door to the balcony. “Tony, get going. We can talk on the way.”

Within seconds Stark was encased in his red and gold armour. There was a loud whoosh and he was gone.

 

  
“Charles,” Mummy Holmes said in a low voice, “if Stark intervenes Moriarty will wonder how we knew about Addlestone. He will find the surveillance devices and we will be cut off. We need to monitor him for at least forty-eight hours, preferably longer. We need contacts, bank account details, addresses for safe houses... If we don’t finish Moriarty completely there are thousands, perhaps millions, of lives at stake – far more than those of just two children.” Charles frowned. Sherlock began to pace. John stared at the circular bed and then at the cameras. Something was nagging at the back of his mind.

“There must be a way,” Charles declared emphatically. “Maybe I can keep him busy. Distract him. He doesn’t know for certain you’ve found me yet. I can call Mycroft’s organisation asking for help, keep him busy running after me and let you gather as much information as you can...”

“Such a plan would involve an unacceptable level of risk,” Mycroft said severely.

“My risk. My decision,” Charles countered.

“Tony’s less than a minute from Addlestone,” Quentin advised. “When he arrives he can erect a communications dampening field around the warehouse. That could buy us some time. Sherlock can pretend to investigate...”

“It won’t work,” Sherlock said intensely. “Moriarty will have left enough crumbs for me to find the children, but not quickly. And he likes to watch. He probably has video monitors at the warehouse. The instant Stark sets up his dampening field it will stop that transmission. And Moriarty will know something is wrong.”

“Then it seems we don’t have any choice,” Charles said calmly. “I’ll make the call, get dressed in my original clothes...”

“You said he wouldn’t kill the children, at least not straight away,” John interrupted urgently, turning to Sherlock.

“John, we can’t risk...” began Charles.

“Not his way of doing things you said?” John pressed, because now he knew what had been nagging at him although he still wasn’t sure how it could be of any use.

“He won’t kill them straight away,” the alpha detective confirmed. “But their lives are most definitely at risk. Likely he has arranged things so that even working at maximum capacity I would only just have enough time to save them.”

“Well if he’s not going to kill the children now,” John asked pointedly, “then who’s the “maid” supposed to clean up?”

Sherlock stiffened. His eyes widened. And then he burst into a euphoric smile.

“Oh John, that’s brilliant!”

“Of course,” murmured Mycroft. Mummy was already at Quentin’s shoulder. “Tell Stark...”

“Just have,” Quentin advised, fingers still flying. “And Sherlock, you were right about the video coverage. Tony’s picking up transmissions from four cameras. Three inside the factory. One in the carpark. As far as I can tell though the transmissions are not active on Moriarty’s laptop.” He glanced at Charles. “He’s watching the rowing final between Yale and Harvard from eight years ago instead. Apparently, Harvard’s cox was pretty cute.”

“There’s the children,” Mummy Holmes noted urgently then peered unhappily at the screen. “What are they eating?”

“Sweets,” Quentin said softly. He pointed at a different monitor. “These two are leaving. They must be the.... Tony, do you see?” As one, they all moved to crowd around Quentin’s monitor.

“Yeah,” Stark’s matter of fact voice came through one of the speakers. “Freaky.” Two men were moving towards a silver sedan parked a short distance from the building. One was nondescript of average height and medium build but the other was tall and lean, with a curly mop of dark hair and a long, very distinctive coat. He turned his head to look around and John caught a glimpse of his profile.

“Jesus!”

“Doppelgänger indeed,” Mycroft murmured. The shorter man had dropped behind his companion and now his hand sank into his coat pocket.

“I’m gonna need to step in,” Tony stated urgently.

Mycroft leaned forward his voice smooth and calm,  “Do not intervene Mr Stark. Record everything. Closely monitor the situation. But I repeat you are not to act until they are outside the range of the final camera.” The Maid had his gun out of his pocket now. He directed the Doppelgänger to kneel.

“This guy’s got about ten seconds to live. You expect me to watch and do nothing?” Tony asked, voice angry and incredulous.

“Yes Mr Stark,” Mummy Holmes said severely, “that is exactly what we expect you do.”

“Mr Stark,” Mycroft continued in a milder tone, “Moriarty will have ordered that no trace be left of the “doppelganger”. If he is shot at this location, a location to which Moriarty is leading Sherlock and the police, DNA and quite possibly brain tissue will be left behind. That will be unacceptable to Moriarty. The fact that he’s just secured the man’s hands shows.... ah...” Mycroft finished weakly.  
“What?!” John asked urgently. The gunman had popped the boot but he didn’t see how that changed anything.  
“It’s lined with plastic,” Sherlock said softly.  
“Hold Mr Stark,” Mycroft ordered firmly. “Bullets go through plastic. He won’t shoot him here.”  
“And if he has a knife?” Stark asked tersely. The Doppelganger, wrists cable tied behind his back, was understandably reluctant to climb into the plastic lined boot. The Maid viciously pistol whipped him across the face. John knew it wasn’t Sherlock but he still felt sick.  
“So much for no blood...” Tony muttered.  
“Hold,” Mycroft ordered.  
“Moriarty’s now watching this feed,” Quentin advised.  
“Damn,” Tony muttered. The tall man half stumbled half fell into the boot. For a few overly long seconds the gunman stared down at him. He reached into his pocket. John watched for the flash of a knife but instead he pulled out another cable tie and secured the man’s ankles.  
When the Maid reached into his pocket for a third time and pulled out a roll of duct tape, everyone gave a collective sigh of relief. He tore off a piece and leaned into the boot to press it across the other man’s mouth. Then he slammed the boot shut, climbed into the vehicle and drove off.

“Follow them Mr Stark,” Mycroft ordered. “Discretely.”

“The kids?” Tony asked but John noted he was following the vehicle.  
“They’re fine. We’re watching them right now.” Which John knew was misleading at best because they were eating sweets given to them on Moriarty’s orders. But if Sherlock was right they had time. If Sherlock was right.  
Mummy gestured for the radio communication with Stark to go to listening mode only. She stared at the screen for a few moments then turned to Mycroft.  
“Car crash?” He gave a slow thoughtful nod. Mummy placed her hand over his.  
“I should take care of it. Your organisation is compromised.” Mycroft gave a wry smile.  
“I know. I’m hoping we can use that actually.” Mummy Holmes stared at him, then smiled back.  
“We won’t know what’s appropriate until we retrieve Sherlock’s double,” Mummy noted.  
“Agreed,” Mycroft said solemnly.  
“As for the crash... “ Mycroft nodded. He gestured for Quentin to reopen the link with Tony Stark.  
“About time,” the American noted with irritation. “Car crash?” he asked.  
“Single vehicle Mr Stark,” Mycroft advised with no visible surprise. “I was thinking a burst front tyre on a bending corner.” John tensed.  
“The man in the boot?” he asked.  
“Mr Stark will of course take control of the vehicle and extract Sherlock’s double before arranging the crash.” Mycroft noted.  
“Mr Stark will be extracting both men before arranging the crash,” Tony corrected. Mycroft and Mummy exchanged an eye roll.  
“We don’t actually need the driver alive,” Mycroft tried pointing out.  
“Not your assassin,” Stark shot back.  
“Very well,” Mycroft conceded. “It will have to at least look like the driver is dead or critically injured.”  
“Not your special effects guy either.”  
“We’ll take care of that Mr Stark,” Mummy said graciously and exchanged a knowing look with Quentin who began typing on a third keyboard. A lot of low murmuring between the two of them and Mycroft followed.

Sherlock and McCoy were intensely studying something on Hank McCoy’s screen.

John looked at Charles, who gave him a warm smile. John tilted his head in the direction of the blue sofa. Charles gave a small nod. They both quietly moved away and over to on the brightly coloured couch.

“Brilliant idea, John,” Charles whispered. “Just brilliant.” John gave a small, uncertain shrug. Charles frowned.  
“Is there a problem?”  
“Not sure to be honest,” John stated.  
“How so?”  
“Not sure what my idea is actually supposed to be,” he admitted. Charles stared at him in surprise. Then beamed.  
“Conductor of light,” he said with an expression of quiet wonder. “Just marvellous.” John felt his cheeks flush warm. He darted a quick look at the others. None of them seemed to be paying any attention.

“As I understand it,” Charles advised softly, “your observations highlighted that Moriarty intended having one of his people killed in the very near future – a man who was based at Addlestone, an accessory to the kidnapping and aware of the whereabouts of the children. Now, if anything should happen to prevent that murder, say a car accident, then it is entirely plausible that the intended victim would urgently seek protection from the authorities and provide details of Moriarty’s plot including the kidnapping in exchange for same.”  
John processed this for a few seconds.  
“Providing a believable reason for how the children can be found and rescued early without letting on that you’re listening in. You’re right,” John said smiling with sudden relief. “That is brilliant.” Charles grinned back.

“What are you two up?” John jumped as Sherlock appeared less than two feet away peering at them with catlike intensity.  
“Oh, John’s plan,” he noted with a trace of amusement.  
“By the way, how did you go with my little locked room puzzle?” Charles interposed with twinkling eyes. The amusement disappeared instantaneously.  
Sherlock’s coat was still lying across the back of the sofa. Charles reached into a pocket and pulled out a sparkling blue and white bundle.  
“You’ll need to return this.”  
Sherlock carefully took the object. He stared at it for a few moments then, grasping either end, let it hang between his hands. It was a large and no doubt obscenely valuable necklace. John could make out the design of a blue parrot in the centre of an intricate nest of diamonds.  
“The Sapphire Macaw,” John gasped. Charles shrugged.  
“We had to keep you both occupied. Mummy took care of Mycroft.” He smiled playfully at Sherlock, “and I got to design a mystery for you.” Sherlock stared at him in amazement.  
“Have you figured it out yet?” Charles asked innocently. “Perhaps you’d like a ...”  
“No!” Sherlock snapped, loudly enough that both Mycroft and Mummy glanced at him from across the room before returning to their rather intense discussion. Sherlock gave a small, whole body quiver, like a ruffled peacock.  
“No Charringford,” Sherlock bit out with forced civility, “I would not like a hint.”  
Sherlock peered intently at the necklace, then at his little brother, and then at his coat.  
“You could have put this in my pocket just now. Or when you were wearing my coat earlier,” he speculated.  
Charles considered this statement,  
“I could have, but I didn’t. And that wouldn’t explain how it got out of the locked room in the first place.” Sherlock huffed and pulled his magnifier out of his jacket pocket to give the necklace a more thorough examination.  
“You’re on the right track...” Charles began.  
Sherlock growled and the young omega wisely shut up.

The tall detective spent a few moments peering intently at the necklace. Then he frowned, glanced irritably at the dim downlights overhead and went to stand in the brighter natural light next to the balcony. John watched him fondly before turning back to Charles.

  
The young omega now wore a very solemn expression. So, alone by design then. John spared a moment to admire the subtlety with which Charles had manoeuvred the alpha out of their way.

  
And yes, they did need to talk.

“Lovecraft,” John said at a volume too low for even alpha hearing. “That’s the name Moriarty leased this apartment under. John Lovecraft. Because Moriarty’s a smarmy git who thinks he’s funny.”  
Surprise flickered across Charles’ face. His lips quirked into the barest trace of a smile.  
“Just so.” John flicked a glance at Mycroft then over his shoulder at Sherlock where he was still standing next to the balcony sliding door. Suddenly, he felt very weary. He gestured at the sofa. They both sat.  
“I grabbed Moriarty at the pool. I’d been on the go for over twenty-four hours, no shower, no chance to refresh the beta bodywash.”  
“And strapped into a Semtex vest,” Charles noted quietly. John nodded. Even with suppressants, extreme stress could cause the release of trace amounts of omega distress pheromones. What had Moriarty said when John had locked an arm around his throat – oh, I see why you like him! John dropped his head and scrubbed a hand across his face. He looked up in time to see Charles close his eyes and rub two fingers over his temple. John was tired. But he realised now that the young omega was exhausted.

“You took my place.”

Cerulean blue eyes blinked open. John swallowed, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by emotion and certainly having no idea what to say. So he kept it simple.  
“Thank you Charles.”  
Charles bit his lip then nodded.  
“You’re most welcome John.”

They sat for a little while in a contemplative and surprisingly comfortable silence.

“So,” John began eventually rubbing his hands up and down the tops of his thighs. “Moriarty knows.”  
“Yes.”  
“And he’s got to be bouncing off the walls right now.” Charles smirked,  
“I’d say so.”  
“But he doesn’t know that... I know that he knows.” Charles nodded.  
“He may not until he realises that this was our trap, not his,”  
“Do they know?” John asked, glancing at Mycroft. Then Sherlock.  
Charles looks across at his brothers. Both were still apparently engrossed in what they were doing.  
“They didn’t. But John, once they have a chance to read Moriarty’s emails from the last few months, they almost certainly will. They may even suspect now.” John frowned.  
“How?” Charles sighed,  
“Because for all his very considerable faults, violent rape is not really Moriarty’s style.” John considered all he knew of the psychotic alpha. Debasement. Fine. Compelling submission. Yes, definitely. But he suspected Moriarty would scorn anything as crass or ordinary as an obviously forced sexual attack. Charles nodded, clearly picking up on his train of thought.  
“Moriarty likes to manipulate things so that his target is forced to play some part in their own destruction. It’s how I knew he would want me to beg. And it’s part of the reason he enjoys his “consulting criminal” role so much - he revels in nudging people down a slippery slope. I’m sure he has something similar in mind for Sherlock. And for that approach to truly work in this scenario...“ he gestured towards the bed and cameras.  
“He needed someone he could force into a heat,” John concluded. “An omega.”  
“Exactly.”

  
“I know!”

Both Charles and John jumped. Sherlock was hovering over them again.

“Bloody hell!” John gasped.  Charles just smiled up at his brother.

“And the culprit was....?”  
“Winston Goodboy Fothering Cuddlepot,” Sherlock pronounced confidently. John’s mouth dropped open,

“The poodle?”

“The poodle,” Sherlock confirmed. “Unmistakable traces of dog saliva and a miniscule tuft of wool snagged in the clasp.” Charles smiled at him but said nothing. Sherlock’s eyes glittered,

“And he had an accomplice.” the detective continued. Charles’s smile widened.

“An accomplice?” John said, his voice incredulous. “The poodle had an accomplice. Don’t tell me – it was the parrot.” Sherlock looked slightly deflated. John gaped.

“You are kidding me! The parrot! The parrot is a jewel thief!”

“That particular breed of parrot is known for its intelligence and ability to be trained John,” Sherlock said smoothly. “And I seem to recall that a close friend of yours Charringford, an exchange student from...”

 

“Gentlemen!” Mycroft called loudly. “In case any of you are still interested, the Doppelgänger has just made a full confession and the local constabulary are rescuing the children as we speak.”

  
“They’re alright?” Charles asked.

“The wrappers of the chocolates they were given were laced with mercury,” Mycroft advised with cold distaste. “But they haven’t consumed many. No long term harm has been done.”

John closed his eyes and dropped his head into his hands. He exchanged a quick relieved smile with Charles then looked up at Sherlock only to find himself being very closely scrutinised.

Again.

Hell.

John flicked a glance over at the group working on the computers. Mummy was engrossed in a conversation with Quentin and Hank was apparently completely absorbed with whatever was on his own screen. Mycroft, however, was also staring at him.

It really was only a question of time.

Double hell.


	6. A Timely Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is running out on John's secret. Charles needs to leave. And we finally meet Erik.

There was a loud whoosh and a few seconds later Tony Stark was sliding open the balcony door, aluminium suitcase in hand.  Charles bounced up to greet him.

“Tony!  Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Stark assured, wrapping an arm around the young omega’s shoulders.  “The kids are fine, or will be soon.  Moriarty’s men are slightly less fine, but still alive and more or less in one piece.  And officially, Ironman was never there.”

“Well done Mr Stark,” Mummy Holmes stated gravely.  “Very well done.”

Stark stiffened at the praise and its unexpected source.  He gave Mummy a respectful nod then turned to Mycroft.

“I’m just glad you were right about Moriarty not wanting that guy shot at the factory.”  Mycroft pouted his lips in a contemplative pose.  John tensed.  He had come to associate that expression with the British Government saying something particularly caustic.

“Oh, I doubt Moriarty would have cared too much about that one way or the other,” the auburn haired alpha responded dismissively.  Stark frowned. He slowly removed his arm from Charles’s shoulders and turned so that he was fully facing the other alpha.

“Come again?”

“Physical appearance cannot be determined from DNA Mr Stark,” Mycroft said dryly.  “Moriarty would probably have preferred the murder take place elsewhere but I doubt he attached much weight to the matter one way or the other.”  John swallowed.  The air was suddenly filled with alpha pheromones – very angry alpha pheromones.

“So what you said about that guy being in no danger... “

“Was to ensure you didn’t wreck everything by intervening in front of the cameras.  I just had to delay you taking action long enough for the assassin to either kill the double or drive off.  If the man _was_ killed, you are sufficiently intelligent to realise that there was nothing to be gained from exposing your presence and would wait until the Maid had driven out of range of the camera.  The situation was salvageable either way.”

“Salvageable?” Stark bit out.

“Yes,” Mycroft observed almost cheerfully.  “Faced with a car crash, a dead man in the boot and the murder weapon on his person, we could have made a convincing case that the Maid had confessed all and made a deal for protection.  After all,” Mycroft’s expression turned icy, “Moriarty does not tolerate failure.”

Stark’s face was surprisingly calm.  But his pheromones doubled in strength.  He stared at Mycroft for quite some time then turned back to Charles.

“Did you know?”  Charles looked apologetic.

“I knew there was a risk Tony.  I expect we all did.  But I honestly believed he would wait.  Moriarty would never want the Doppelgänger’s real identity known and with DNA that was always a possibility.  And once he let the double see the gun, I was confident he was under explicit instructions not to kill him at the warehouse.” 

“Why?  How could you know that?”

“The hitman’s body language, his facial expressions, his interaction with the Doppelgänger up to that point and that man’s apparent comfort in his company.  And because the Maid showed no signs of pleasure at the fear of the other man once his victim realised what was going to happen.  These all spoke of man for whom killing is a job.  _Just_ a job.  He does it without enjoyment and as efficiently as possible.”  Tony stared at him then said slowly,

“So, given free reign, the Maid would have arranged things so the Doppelgänger never knew what hit him.  He would have shot him in the back.  Quicker.  Less drama.  Less risk.”  Charles nodded

“Precisely.”  Tony studied the omega for a few more seconds then gave him a small smile and stepped over to put his arm back around the young man’s shoulders.

“Fair enough.”

“You’re reading a lot into a few seconds of footage, little brother,” Mycroft stated peevishly.  He was staring at Stark’s arm over Charles’s shoulders and his expression was distinctly unhappy.  John realised that the alpha’s barb had been a deliberate attempt to alienate Stark and push him away.  “A life in Academia hardly qualifies you to make those kinds of assessments.”

“Mycroft,” Mummy Holmes interrupted, “I understand you were quite impressed by the highly confidential psychological profile on Moriarty you procured from the FBI’s Behavioural Assessment Unit.  Impressed enough to put in a request for a supplementary profile addressing how the subject was likely behave in certain circumstances.”  Mycroft’s stared at her in surprise for a moment, then his eyes widened.  The elderly omega smiled. 

“Charles has been working as a consulting profiler with the BAU under the pseudonym Francis Pembroke for almost two years.  Shield’s been trying to get him on staff for the last six months.”  For three, wonderful seconds Mycroft gaped.  Then his mouth clicked shut.

“You know Charlie,” Stark drawled, giving the omega’s shoulders an affectionate squeeze, “the sooner we get you home the better.”

“Charringford will be staying in Britain,” Mycroft snapped coldly.  And now there were more pheromones racing through the air, this time coming from both directions. 

“He’s got his own floor waiting for him in my Tower,” Stark asserted then grinned cheekily, “We’ll practically be roomies.”  Mycroft’s face darkened like a thundercloud.

“He will be safest with his family.”

“He’ll be living in Avenger Central,” Stark disagreed.  “Surrounded by superheroes and the best security system in the world.”

“Charringford, come here!” Mycroft ordered in a strikingly powerful alpha voice.  John was appalled at the invisible tug in his own chest.

“Mycroft.”  Mummy’s voice was soft but still cut through the argument like a scalpel.  “Stark’s tower is the safest place for Charles right now.”  Mycroft bristled but Mummy pressed on.  “The Avengers will protect him.  And he _will_ be with family because I’ll be in New York for my new position and will ensure that he also has SHIELD’s full protection.”

“SHIELD?” Stark queried.  “You clear that with Fury Mrs Holmes?”  Mummy smiled.  This time it was chilling.

“I don’t need to clear things with Commander Fury Mr Stark.  Commander Fury clears things with me.”  And that made even the billionaire industrialist blink.  He turned to Charles,

“Geez kid, I thought Howard was bad, but your family .,,”  The omega murmured an ambivalent hum.

“Both SHIELD and the Avengers, however, have other important jobs which may draw them away or allow them to become distracted,” Mummy continued, “As Colonel Howlett is currently unreachable deep in the wilds of British Columbia, I have arranged for a new personal body guard whose sole priority will be Charles’s wellbeing.”  There was a sharp knock at the door.  “That will be him now.  Come in!”

“The front door opened and a tall lean man in a tan leather jacket, sharply creased black slacks and a black turtleneck stalked inside.  All the hair went up on the back of John’s neck.  The newcomer moved like a panther on the prowl, restless and savage, his pale blue-grey eyes taking in everything and everyone.  His hair was dark auburn and his features chiselled and strikingly handsome.  When his stern scrutiny reached Charles it lingered for a few seconds but then continued on to the balance of the room.

As he passed John caught his scent – expensive leather, whiskey, hot metal and ocean spray.  Powerful.  Dominant.  Predator.

Alpha.

“Do you think this wise?” Mycroft murmured to his mother.

“Agent Lensherr is very capable,” Mummy replied.

“Agent?”

“We’ve come to an arrangement.”  Mycroft looked at her for a moment then back at this latest entrant who was meeting his gaze with an unimpressed, almost amused expression.

“I see.”

“His skills...”

“Of course.”

“And he has never...”

“I am aware.”  Mycroft continued to openly scrutinise the newcomer.  Eventually, he gave a small nod.

“Charles.”  Mummy gestured for the young omega to join them. 

“Charles, this is Erik Lensherr.  He’s is a Special Agent with SHIELD and will be responsible for your safety until we have finished dealing with Moriarty.  Charles looked up curiously at the tall alpha’s face, smiled brightly and offered his hand.

“Charles Xavier.  Lovely to meet you.”

Lensherr stared down blankly at the omega’s hand for a few seconds then carefully took it in his own.  Charles beamed.

“Splendid.”

“We should get going Charles,” Tony said loudly.  “I assume tall, dark and murderous will be joining us.”  Lensherr flashed him a shark-like smile that had way too many teeth.  Stark did well not to flinch.

“Do we have a problem Mr Stark?”  Lensherr’s voice was a rich, deep purr. 

“You okay with this Charles?” Stark asked. 

“Yes,” Charles purred softly, still smiling. “I believe I am.  Although,” he looked down, “I will need that back soon.”

Lensherr followed Charles’s gaze and seemed surprised to find that he was still holding onto the young omega’s hand.  He quickly released it. 

“Thank you Agent Lensherr.  May I call you Erik?”  For the blink of an eye the alpha looked much younger and rather lost, then his smooth, impenetrable expression slid back into place.

“Of course.”  The two stared at one another for a long moment, then Charles broke away to bid a quick but warm farewell to Hank and Quentin.  He turned to his mother.  She smiled and opened her arms.  To John’s surprise, after Mummy Holmes released Charles, Mycroft also held his arms open for a hug.

“No more risks, please,” he murmured enfolding the omega in a tight embrace.

“I’ll be keeping a very low profile,” Charles promised.  “Research sabbatical.  And Tony’s letting me set up my own lab in the Tower so I’ll be there most of the time.  I’ll be careful.” 

“Very careful Charringford,” Mycroft said gravely.  Charles gave him an obedient nod and a warm smile.

He turned around to look at Sherlock.  The smile disappeared.  He studied his middle brother.

“Caring is not an advantage,” he stated as though repeating a mantra.

“Sentiment,” Sherlock agreed disdainfully.

“And love?” Charles asked, walking slowly towards them.

“Chemical defect suffered by the losing side,” the detective drawled.  Charles came to a halt just in front of Sherlock.  The omega tilted his head slightly to the side, his face practically glowing with affection. Sherlock pressed his lips tightly together.  Charles smirked.  And then like a dam bursting Sherlock rushed forward to engulf him in a crushing hug, burying his face in the omega’s hair.

“You are an idiot,” Sherlock mumbled.

“A brilliant idiot like you?” Charles asked cheekily.  Sherlock huffed - half laugh, half sob.  Charles pulled back slightly so they could look at one another. 

“Finish him Sherlock,” Charles said softly.  “He’s Nero – ready to set the world on fire just to watch it burn.  And he’ll be most dangerous right at the end.  Because he’d rather die than “lose” and he will do everything in his power not to go alone.  So when you make your move, finish him quick.  Finish him so he never hurts anyone else, ever again.”  Sherlock gripped his brother’s shoulders and nodded.  They embraced again.

When they separated, Charles looked over at John.

“Dr Watson,” he said formally, “could I trouble you for a brief consultation.”  John unconsciously straightened.

“Of course.”  Charles led him out onto the balcony and closed the door behind them.  A chilly wind stirred their clothes and hair. 

John peered over the edge of the balcony at the narrow ledge upon which Charles had been perched when he first saw him.

“I wasn’t out here long,” Charles advised.  “I was lowered down from the roof.”  John remembered the marks under his arms.

“A harness?”  Charles nodded.

“And Tony was suited up and waiting just in case.”  John looked down.  Still damned scary.  He turned and stared out at the cityscape.  His own heart was thumping in his chest.  He took a couple of deep, slow breaths to steady himself.

“So ... I have to tell Sherlock,” he said quietly. 

“Yes, you do,” Charles agreed. 

“I don’t ... I’ve never lived as ...”  John sighed heavily.  “It’s just not me.”

“John,” Charles said gently, “how many omegas do you actually know?”

John frowned.  He’d seen omegas, of course.  Had short, polite conversations.  But _know_?  Actually _know_?  Omegas were the rarest gender, constituting less than ten percent of the population.  And they tended to be born into and marry within the highest echelons of society.  Certainly far above John’s own upbringing.  Britain was fairly traditional in its attitudes towards omegas.  Whilst a handful worked most were kept safely at home by their possessive and highly protective spouses.

“None,” he concluded with some surprise. 

“So much of your knowledge comes from movies, books and popular myth?”  John frowned.

“I suppose that’s right.”

“You’ve spent some time with Mummy and I - do either of us fit into the concept of a fragile, child-like omega?”  John laughed.  He felt something loosen a little in his chest.

“But you’re Holmeses,” he pointed out.  “Ordinary was never an option.”  Charles smiled.

“True.  But then John, how ordinary are _you_?  An ostensibly beta army captain when most betas struggle to rise above NCO.  Medical doctor.  Trauma surgeon.  Loyal friend and crime solving partner to Sherlock Holmes.”  Charles’s smile this time had more than a hint of sadness.  “The last alone marks you as unique.”  John leaned his elbows on the balcony railing and gazed down at the street below.  Charles moved to stand side by side with him.

“What I am rather clumsily trying to express is that being an omega may not be what you think,” Charles offered.  “We are just as intelligent, emotionally stable and capable as any other gender.  And our relationship with the alphas of our pack need not be one of meek submission.  In fact, when necessary, omegas can and will function outside of the traditional rules of pack hierarchy.”  John stared at the youngest Holmes bewildered.

“I don’t understand.”

“When you were in the army,” Charles said, “you were in many ways part of a very large, very structured pack.  Did you feel compelled to always defer to the alphas you were serving with?”  John frowned.

“No, I didn’t.”

“I bet you even disagreed with your superior officers from time to time.”

“Only when they were wrong,” John asserted.  Charles’s lips twitched.

“Wasn’t that unusual for a beta?” 

“I guess so.  But, I never had any trouble over it.  In fact, most alphas respected that I had a mind of my own.  Valued it.  And I was always careful about _how_ I did it.   Only spoke up if there was good reason.  Focussed on the goal.  Kept it private if possible and left egos out of it.  Often as not the alphas ended up thinking everything was their own idea anyway.”  Charles smiled.

“Exactly.”  John stared at him then shook his head.

“It can’t be that simple.”

“It isn’t,” Charles agreed.  “But at the same time, it is.”  John bit his lip.

“I think I understand what you’re saying,” he began, “but ...”

“The pheromones?” Charles asked.

“And the thing with the voice,” John concluded.  The young omega nodded.

“We all respond.  But as you have experienced for yourself, we don’t _have_ to obey.  Both betas and omegas are biologically conditioned to follow alphas.  But biology does not require blind or total obedience of us.  In fact, part of my thesis was to prove that betas find it more difficult, even physically stressful, to disobey a direct order from a high level alpha than omegas do.  The exception of course is where the alpha in question is the omega’s bondmate.”

“Okay,” John said a little uncertainly. 

Charles studied him for a moment then continued,

“Moriarty is a powerful alpha.  I can personally attest to the fact that his alpha voice and pheromones are very strong.”  John nodded.

“He tried using them on me at the pool.”

“Did it work?”  John shook his head.

“I wanted nothing more than to punch his head in.”

“What do you think you would do if Moriarty was standing here right now.”

“If he didn’t have sniper rifles pointed at anyone, I’d smash the evil, bastard in his smirking, smug, slimy face,” John stated without hesitation.  Charles grinned.

“Doing so is a very satisfying experience.  I can personally attest to that too.”  John grinned back.  But then the grin faded.

“So why does everyone think omegas are so...”

“Weak?” Charles suggested.  John nodded.

“Omegas are not weak,” Charles said firmly.  “Our role is to unify the pack by soothing and calming those around us and strengthening the relationships that hold us together.  This often involves being easy going, supportive and helpful.  Caretakers.  Nurturers.  Peacemakers.  But there are times when we need to be assertive and firm.  Alphas aren’t always the most empathetic of individuals.  And they tend to get caught up in matters of dominance.  I imagine you’ve seen your share of that sort of behaviour between Sherlock and Mycroft.”  John pulled a face.  Charles laughed.

“As omegas we help our pack work together no matter what,” Charles continued.  “We are also fiercely loyal and have incredibly strong protective instincts.  There is little an omega won’t do to protect their pack, especially their mate.  Even when the person that alpha needs protection from is him or herself.”  John snorted,

“I sometimes wonder if Sherlock even _has_ a sense of self-preservation.”  Then he stiffened because he realised he’d just implied ...  “Sherlock’s not my mate,” he blurted out quickly.  “He’s ... “ 

My colleague.  My flatmate.  My friend.  My _best_ friend.  My ...  John swallowed.

“He’s yours,” Charles said gently.  “He’s pack.”  John nodded.  Because even if the world had turned on its head in the past hour (and God had it only been an hour?) Charles was right.  John had killed for Sherlock.  And he didn’t doubt that he would also die for him if needs be.  Sherlock was _his_.

And surely that was enough to be going on with.

At least, it was for John.

“So, you’re saying what?”  John asked slowly.  “That omegas are the power behind the throne?  The hand that rocks the cradle?  That sort of thing?” 

“In the past we have been exactly that.  Society’s rules and expectations restricted our role and the ways we could have an effect upon the world.  But those rules are changing.  Now we have the opportunity to be so much more.”  And that was true.  Over the past few decades the choices available to omegas had grown exponentially.  Nowadays some omegas attended university and had careers.  There were a few omega politicians, lawyers, actors and musicians, scientists and public servants.  There were even a handful of omega doctors.  They tended to be gynaecologists, obstetricians, paediatricians or GPs specialising in treating omegas and children, but they existed. 

“Enough to let me run around helping Sherlock solve crimes and catch killers?” he asked softly.  Charles considered.

“There’s no law against it.”  And that was true.  But would he be _allowed_ on crime scenes as an omega.  Would Lestrade permit it?  Would Sherlock?

“Before he left for university, Sherlock taught me how to climb trees,” Charles advised.  “He let me help him with his experiments, taught me how to pick locks, make explosives and booby traps, untie myself from knots, how pressure points worked and how to properly autopsy a frog.”  John gaped at him for a moment then chuckled.  He couldn’t help it.

“Bit different from what we’ve been up to but I think I understand the sentiment.”

“What I’m trying to say is that I don’t know how Sherlock is going to react,” Charles confided.  “But I know he cares about you.  And he doesn’t give a damn about tradition or societal expectations.  Mycroft, on the other hand...”  John nodded.  He’d take his chances.  He always had. 

But right now it was high time Charles was somewhere safe.

John hesitated for just a moment then pulled the young omega into a long, tight, heartfelt hug. 

“Thank you Charles.”  Charles hugged him back just as hard.  Finally, they both let go.

“So, Ganymede?” he teased lightly as they pulled apart.  Charles laughed. 

“And you thought Hamish was bad.” 

“Yeah, definitely not swapping,” John noted breezily as he pulled open the balcony door.

“You okay Charles,” Stark asked intensely.  “If you need medical treatment... “

“I’m fine,” Charles said with a reassuring smile.  He gave Sherlock another quick hug, waved to the others and then flanked by Stark and the mysterious Agent Lensherr walked out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find the idea of pack dynamics one of the most interesting aspects of omegaverse. There is a Bond/Sherlock crossover fic written by KTwoNTwo called Metamorphosis which looks at the position of omegas in a werewolf pack hierarchy which inspired some of the thoughts here. It's a great read and well worth a look.


	7. Confessions and Explanations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John decides now is as good a time as any.

 

If John had any lingering doubts about the strong emotional influence that an omega's presence could have, he had only to consider the void left by Charles’s absence.

 

“We are relocating,” Mummy advised briskly.  John noted that Quentin and Hank had already packed up their equipment and were moving towards the front door.  A muscular blonde alpha wearing an impeccable bespoke suit was waiting for them just outside the doorway.  To Quentin's obvious annoyance he reached out and insistently took the cases being carried by the young omega.  He surveyed the remaining occupants of the room.  John shivered when his pale, calculating gaze seemed to dwell on him for a long moment.  If Agent Lensherr possessed a panther’s lethal, sinuous grace then this man was a lion – confident, powerful and somehow majestic.

“Protocol Teatime, Bond,” Mummy ordered, seemingly unaware of the alpha's sharp scutiny.  “We’ll reconvene in the bunker.” She looked back at John and her two oldest sons.  “Transport is waiting.”

John glanced at his friend.  Sherlock stared back, eyes unreadable.    

Time to rip off the band-aid.

“Mrs Holmes, is this room still secure?” he asked.  “No surveillance?”

“Still secure Dr Watson,” she confirmed.

“Then I’d like a few moments to speak privately with Sherlock.”

“Of course.”  Mummy Holmes’s voice was brisk and matter of fact but the expression that flashed across her face was surprisingly soft.  “Mycroft and I will wait in the foyer.”  She headed straight for the door.  Mycroft hesitated, his calculating grey eyes darting between them. 

“Mycroft.”  There was steel in Mummy’s voice.  The auburn haired alpha obediently turned to join his mother. 

The door clicked shut behind him and John and Sherlock were alone.

 

“Sherlock really should take better care of his omegas.” The tall detective stated in a flat voice with a heavy emphasis on the _s._   John sighed.  Of course Sherlock had already worked it out.  He took a deep breath.

“Yes.”   Pale eyes bored into him.

“Yes?”  John straightened his spine, placed his hands behind his back and tilted his chin up.

“Yes, I’m an omega.  Yes, Moriarty knows.  Yes,” he glanced across at the bed and cameras, “all of this was originally intended for me.”  He looked back at Sherlock, willing his face to stay calm even though his heart felt like it was about to pound out of his ribcage.

Sherlock remained still.  So impossibly still he didn’t even appear to be breathing.  But his scent changed – morphed into something deeper and sharper and stronger than John could ever remember.  He had no idea what that meant but it made his knees quiver.  He forced himself to hold the alpha’s intense gaze.

Sherlock took a slow step towards him.  Then another.  He kept his pale, expressionless eyes locked on John’s.  Another step and another and now Sherlock was so close his scent was overwhelming – terrifying and comforting in equal measure.  It was the alpha who finally broke eye contact.  He looked away from John’s face to stare down at his throat.  The omega swallowed.  A half step.  Then Sherlock leaned in so close that his curls brushed John’s cheek as his nose came to rest near the base of John’s neck - just below his hairline where his scent would be strongest.  John closed his eyes and clenched his fists.  A slightly cold nose pressed against the warm skin of his nape and made John shiver.  The detective inhaled deeply.   

The alpha’s already tense body snapped tight like a whip and he gave a strange choking growl.  Long arms wrapped around John like bands of steel.

“Sherlock?”

The arms tightened even further, so tight it was almost painful.  John could barely move.  Barely breathe.  He purposefully slowed and deepened his breathing as he had been taught to do when suffering a panic attack.  His nose and mind filled with Sherlock’s scent.  Sherlock.  Safe.  John let that knowledge settle over him like a warm blanket.  Sherlock.  Safe.  Tired.  John was tired.  He hadn’t slept in nearly two days.  Hadn’t eaten for over twelve hours.  His body felt heavy.  So tired.  Sherlock.  He leaned into the alpha holding him.  Safe.  He lowered his head to rest on the shoulder in front of him.  His nose pressed into Sherlock’s jacket and he was immersed in that wonderful scent.  Sherlock.  Safe.  Sherlock.  Safe.  Sherlock.

Home.

 

 

John vaguely registered knocking.

The bands around him had loosened but still held him close and fingers were stroking soothingly through his hair.  It felt wonderful.

More knocking. 

Sharp and loud.  No hesitation.  Not a client.  Lestrade?  He normally texted first.  But the number of raps and short interval between meant there was some urgency.

The hand in his hair stilled.

John blinked his eyes open.

“Stay here,” a familiar, deep voice murmured beside his ear.  A final caress through his hair and that warm, strong presence was gone. 

John found himself standing on his own, swaying slightly.  He lifted his head to get his bearings and spotted Sherlock next to the front door, holding it open just a few inches and irritably telling someone outside to “Bugger off!”

The detective slammed the door and engaged the lock.  He pivoted around and froze when he saw John watching him.

“Mycroft,” John observed with resignation.  Sherlock gave an irritated growl and stalked back towards him before stopping short uncertainly.

“Does he know?” John asked quietly.

Sherlock glared at the door.

“Suspects.”  John nodded.

“And you figured it out from just a throwaway line by Moriarty?” John prompted.  Sherlock visibly relaxed.  This was familiar ground.  Deductions.  The detective took a deep breath and launched.

"Moriarty is a showman and this," he gestured at the bed and cameras, 'was his intended stage.  It tells us a great deal.  First, the choice of location.  He could have done this anywhere.  He chose the top floor of a busy highrise apartment building filled with potential witnesses.  There are no gags.  There is no special soundproofing.  There are no restraints.  The clear implication is that he did not anticipate any significant resistance on the part of his victim. No screams or cries for help. Now, an unconscious or heavily sedated victim would afford no meaningful resistance.  Such a victim, however, would also fail to satisfy Moriarty's intense craving for drama and degradation.  So Moriarty had an _expectation of compliance_ \- compliance, if not co-operation - on the victim's part.  The question then becomes how Moriarty expected to secure such compliance. 

Obedience,  _submission_ , _can_  be secured by threats.  Threats of harm not only to the victim but to someone very close to or important to him or her.  In such a case, however, Moriarty would have set this stage quite differently.  And he would have provided very different props.  I would expect to find crops and paddles and all the other accoutrements of a consensual BDSM scene.  Because then he could cast the victim as a willing participant in his little production.  Any emotional distress or reluctance could be treated as part of a consensual sexual game.  They want this.  They asked for it.  They are _enjoying_ it.  And he would have prepared the decor to match.  Leather and chromed metal.  Dark furnishings and black sheets.  Or blood red.  But this," he gestured at the apartment around them, "is tacky and gaudy.  There is no undertone of danger.  It's faux sensual.  Cliche. Pornography. 

So, Moriarty expected to secure more than compliance.  He expected ostensibly willing and enthusiastic participation.  Which means there is only one conclusion - the intended victim was an omega."

"Amazing," John said softly.  "But how did you know that I was that omega?  Or an omega at all?"  Sherlock gave a small nod.

“The target had to be someone personally important to me.  That narrowed the pool considerably.  The fact that person was also almost certainly an omega left very few possibilities.  Quentin’s our cousin - one of the few relatives I have that is neither tedious nor oppressively snobbish.  But his work means that he lives under an alternate identity and is under continuous, high level surveillance and protection.  Certainly not someone who could be spirited away unnoticed.”

“A minor position with the British government?” John asked. 

“Exactly.”  Sherlock turned to stare at the bed.

“I have another omega cousin who is tolerable but she is in her mid-forties and has four children.  The only other omega I have ever been close to is Victor and I haven’t seen him for over a decade.”

“Victor?”  Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. 

“My boyfriend in college.” 

John couldn’t help it.  He gaped.  Sherlock raised an imperious eyebrow. 

“I just... “John stammered.  “I didn’t... I suppose... you weren’t married to your work back then?” John finished weakly.  He could feel the blush creeping up his neck and hurriedly asked, “What made you suspect I wasn’t a beta?” 

Sherlock studied him for a long moment then slid smoothly back into deduction mode.

"Mummy's suggestion that Molly, a beta, may have been the intended victim implied that she knew the true target‘s identity but was trying to deflect attention away from it.  Why?  The most likely reason was that the person in question wasn’t known to be an omega.  The more I considered the possibility it might be you, the more sense it made - your small stature, empathetic nature and caretaker tendencies, Moriarty’s previous targeting of you, _John_ Lovecraft...”

“Yeah, actually caught that one,” John noted wryly. 

“When you recognised the omega kin scent between Quentin, Mummy and Charles I was certain.”  John mentally backtracked to that moment and realised it was shortly after Quentin had entered the room.  He silently applauded Sherlock’s restraint in keeping the revelation secret.

“I’ve noticed that you are more aware of scents and pheromones than most betas, I assumed you must have latent genetic traits.”  John nodded.  Some betas with an alpha parent had a greater than average ability to detect scents and pheromones.  “But when you recognised not only that Quentin was an omega but that his scent had similar notes to that of my family,” Sherlock continued, “... that required a level of sensitivity simply not present in anyone other than a full alpha or omega.” 

“Brilliant,” John remarked quietly. 

“Hardly,” the detective huffed.  He regarded John with a frown. “What I do not understand,” he said very softly, “is why.” 

John studied the floor then gave a slow nod.  He walked over to the blue sofa and sank down.  Sherlock tentatively sat next to him, watchful.  This particular topic was the last thing John wanted to talk about right now.  Possibly ever.  But the time for secrets was gone.

“I hated Friday nights,” he said.  “Mum would make us go to bed early and stay in our rooms.  It took me years to understand - that Friday nights was when Dad would go to the pub with his mates after work.  Mum used to say she was accident prone - sprained wrists, always loads of bruises, especially on her arms.  She wore long sleeves a lot, even in summer.  One night we could hear Mum pleading, crying.  Harry knocked on their bedroom door.  Dad came out.  Said Mum had tripped but he was looking after it.  He ordered us back to our rooms.  The next day Mum’s left eye was swollen shut and she had a split lip.  She didn’t leave the house for two weeks.” 

Sherlock didn’t move.  Didn’t speak.  But his eyes were full of anger and quiet concern and a veritable cloud of comforting alpha pheromones settled around them.  John inhaled deeply.  Something loosened in his chest.

“We were middle class,” he continued.  “Respectable.  Dad was the credit manager at a large bank.  And an alpha.  Mum always took the blame for her injuries.  Made excuses.  Nobody ever questioned it.”  Sherlock nodded.  

Nobody questioned it because thirty years ago an alpha’s home was his territory - his mate and family even more so. 

“Harry presented as an alpha at fifteen.  Dad was really proud, at first, but then they started clashing, sometimes violently. She rebelled.  Started drinking.  Staying out late.  At sixteen, she went to live with her girlfriend’s family.  Dad didn’t like it but there wasn’t much he could do.  Less than a year later Mum got sick.  Eight miserable weeks of pain and hospitals then she was gone.  Advanced bowel cancer.  I was eleven.”

John bit his lip, staring at the hardwood floor.   

“Dad fell apart.  He’d always been a heavy drinker but in the months after Mum died if he wasn’t at work he was drunk.  I don’t know how he kept his job.  People stopped visiting.  I’d ask him for money to buy food but he’d forget.  Or get angry.  One day I fainted at school.  They called Dad to come pick me up.  They were murmurs about services that were available to help with people cope after a broken bond.  He was embarrassed.  When we got home he started yelling, pulling on my arm.  Then his hand twisted and the bone snapped.  I think he panicked.  He didn’t ….”  John’s voice trailed off.

“He didn’t take you to the hospital,” Sherlock said tightly.  John shook his head. 

“No.  He locked me in my room instead.  Brought me a burger and chips and some Panadol and then locked me in again.”  John closed his eyes, reliving the pain and fear of that bloody awful week.  “I think the school called a few times but he kept telling them I was sick. Eventually, I heard Harry’s voice.  They were both shouting.  Later that day Uncle Coll showed up.”  John fell silent.

“Your mother’s brother?”  Sherlock prompted.

“Yeah.  He was a doctor.  A GP.  Beta. Gentle.  Soft spoken.  Smaller than me.” 

“Tiny then.”

“Git,” John said with a smile.  Then the smile faded.  “Dad wouldn’t let him in.  I could hear him yelling for Uncle Coll to push off.  But the yelling died down.  Then I could hear them talking.  Finally, after what seemed like ages, Dad unlocked my door.  Uncle Coll came in without a word.  He examined me then gave me two injections.  For the first time in days the pain went away.  He turned to my father and said completely matter of fact that he could set the arm but that we were going to need antibiotics and stronger thpainkillers than what he had with him.  At that point, I was beyond terrified.  If I’d been able to stand, I’d have made a run for it.  Instead, all I could do was watch as Uncle Coll handed Dad a script and said ‘The pharmacy on Main Street.’  Dad just stared at me for few a seconds then left.  As soon as he heard the front door close, Uncle Col said ‘Johnny, we’re leaving.’ He all but carried me to his car and took me straight to hospital.” 

“The scar on your arm,” Sherlock noted quietly.  “The one you said was from surgery after a rugby injury.”

“Yeah, no, they had to operate, re-break the arm.” 

“And then you were placed in foster care, with your uncle?”  John shook his head.

“No.  I was sent back to Dad.”  Sherlock stilled.

“To your father?”                                            

“Yeah.”  John couldn’t quite bring himself to look at Sherlock’s face at that moment.  The angry pheromones and clenching fists told him clearly enough what the alpha thought of that decision.

“Things got better Sherlock,” John reassured.  “There were case worker visits.  Dad drank less.  And Uncle Coll picked me up from school every day.  He helped me with my homework and made sure I had a proper meal before dropping me a block away from home.  Auntie Lil took me shopping for clothes.  Dad never said anything. I’m not sure his alpha pride even allowed him to think about it.  He wasn’t home much and when he was we stayed out of each other’s way.  He started seeing Monica, a beta woman he’d met at work.  Then Monica started staying Saturday nights.  Collin and Lily made up a bedroom for me and I’d spend weekends at their place.  Dad didn’t seem to care.  I stayed with them during the holidays.  By the end of the summer vacation I’d moved in.”

“Did your father keep in contact at all?” Sherlock asked.

“Birthday lunches, a few hours at Christmas, a phone call from me on Father’s Day.  He came to some of my rugby matches.  He and Monica got married.  Had Stephanie.  Any permission slips and such Uncle Coll just used to sign.  Most people didn’t ask to see any paperwork.”

“But the army did.”

“They did,” John agreed.  “And Dad signed.  I was seventeen, liked the idea of military service and it seemed the best way to fund my university studies.  With everything they’d already done I wasn’t going to ask Collin and Lily to take on that sort of financial burden.”    

“They didn’t pick up you were an omega when you did your physical?”  John shook his head. 

“I hadn’t presented yet so nothing showed up in the blood test and back then they only did abdominal ultrasounds if you had an omega parent or grandparent.  The odds were…”

“Over eight hundred thousand to one,” Sherlock stated.  John smiled.

“I was going to say a million to one but yeah, you’re right.”  He licked his lips.  “I was nearly nineteen when I had my first heat.  I didn’t know what was going on.  Only that I felt really odd.  Luckily, I decided to go home early.”  He sighed.  “Afterwards, it was like the world had turned on its head.  Everything I had been working towards, the life I had been building - all gone.  But that wasn’t the worst of it.  Because then I realised…”

“The _Omega Emancipation Act_ ,” Sherlock said softly.  John nodded. 

“You’re thirty-six,” Sherlock continued.  “The age of majority for omegas wasn’t lowered to eighteen until ten years ago.  Before that omegas under the age of twenty-one couldn’t do anything without the consent of the family’s senior alpha - not bond, not work, not even move out of home.”

“We also couldn’t take suppressants,” John noted. “Or birth control.”  Sherlock’s face hardened.

“Your father would have forced you into a bond?”   John shrugged.

“I think a large part of why he let me go so easily was because everyone thought I was beta.  He was so proud of Harry being an alpha.  And dismissive, if not disdainful of betas.  If he had found out I was an omega, he would have insisted I come back to live with him.  And I think he would have been very alive to the advantages, social and financial, that a bond with a wealthy alpha could deliver.”

“So your uncle provided suppressants.”  John nodded. 

“They took care of most of the scent.  And with a bit of experimentation we combined a number of commercial body washes to develop something that resembled and complemented the keynotes of my scent.  Any alphas catching a stray whiff would assume it came out of a bottle.”

“Clever,” Sherlock said.  “I had noticed that you customise your shower gel - unusual behaviour in a man who is fastidious but uncomplicated in his grooming choices.  I dismissed the possible inconsistency as a matter of personal preference.”   He paused.  Then said very deliberately, “A conclusion assisted by the fact that I found the result exceptionally pleasing.” 

John blinked.  Had Sherlock just complemented his scent – his _omega_ scent?  He gave a hesitant,

“Cheers.” 

They stared at one another for a few seconds then jumped to their feet when the front door suddenly swung open.  The British Government strode resolutely into the room.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock bellowed in outrage.   

“We need to move Sherlock,” the auburn haired alpha stated curtly.  He then turned his full attention to John, giving the startled doctor a small, almost formal bow,

“My genuine apologies John, but we really do need to hurry.” 

John sighed heavily.

“Cat’s definitely out of the bag then.”  Mycroft gave him a soft, almost tender look.

“I’m afraid so.”  John nodded.  He collected Sherlock’s Belstaff from the back of the blue sofa and handed it to him.

“We’ve got work to do Sherlock,” he said simply.  “The rest of this will have to wait.”  Sherlock hooked the coat over his shoulders with a subdued nod.

“Moriarty always gets to initiate things,” John noted, tilting his head towards his friend.  “It should be interesting being ahead of him for a change.”   

“Indeed,” the detective agreed, eyes lighting up with predatory anticipation. 

“Although there is one thing about all this I would like you to clarify,” John remarked as they followed Mycroft to the door. 

“Just one John?” Sherlock asked with a sideways, teasing smirk.

“Caring is not an advantage?”  Sherlock’s steps stuttered.  John paused to look at him then at Mycroft who had also stopped and turned around.  The two alphas shared an awkward glance.

“Oh, don’t worry, I think I understand.  And I agree,” John stated.  The Holmes brothers shared another glance, this time slightly confused.

“If life were a game,” John held Sherlock’s eyes with his own, “which it isn’t,” he said firmly then turned his steady gaze on Mycroft, “or a battlefield - which it can be,” he conceded, “then it’s true that caring would not be an advantage.” 

He levelled them both with his best Captain Watson stare.  “Caring is far more important than a _mere_ advantage – it’s the _reason_ – the very reason we play, fight and exist at all.”

They both stared at him, stunned and unblinking, which was perversely satisfying.  John grinned.

“Just so we’re all on the same page.  Come on then, we’ve got a complete and utter bastard to destroy.” 

He marched past a still staring Mycroft.  After a couple of steps, he felt Sherlock fall in beside him.  He turned his head and they exchanged a long look full of understanding.

Whatever comes. 

Together.

Yes.

 


End file.
